


Crossing the Styx

by PixelByPixel, titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Ninjas - Freeform, Temporary Amnesia, check end notes for spoilery warnings, family feelings (or not), finding peace (or not), meaningful tense changes, redemption (or not), working title: amnestick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24440149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt goes for drinks with his friends, and learns of a mysterious death in a morgue...
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Daredevil Bingo, Marvel Fluff Bingo, Mattelektra Bingo.





	Crossing the Styx

**Author's Note:**

> For PixelByPixel: DaredevilBingo prompt _I beat you_ , MattElektraBingo prompt _amnesia_ , Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _memory loss_ , Marvel Fluff Bingo Prompt _accomplishing a goal_.
> 
> For titC: MattElektraBingo prompt _child soldiers_ , Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt _memory loss_ , Marvel Fluff Bingo Prompt _reunited_.

Matt regretted fighting Brett, sometimes. Sure, if he’d been unmasked back then it would have been disastrous, but Brett was a good guy, a good cop. There weren’t that many in the Kitchen. It was better than it used to be, but he was one of the good ones and there were never enough of those. Still, he’d tried to apologize, sort of, when he’d asked Brett to claim Frank’s arrest. It had been the least he could do.

And Foggy’s Fake Feud with Brett never failed to make Matt smile, too. They bickered, they complained, they mocked, but they were very Romeo and Juliet, deep down: one cop, one lawyer; destined to be forever at odds, and yet… Well. At least there was no serenading. Foggy was a terrible, _terrible_ singer.

Brett though, Brett was decent. Take him far enough away from Bess’s eagle eyes, pour a couple of beers down his throat, and then – then he could sing. And with a bit of luck, he’d also let slip some interesting precinct tidbits that may or may not be of interest to lawyers trying to make a living helping the innocent.

That night, however, Brett had an almost Halloweenesque tale to tell.

“I swear,” he said to his beer. Matt could hear it echo on the glass, just a little. “I saw it myself; the autopsy saw was right there, a little Zombie John Doe blood on it but not a drop that belonged to him anywhere else in the morgue.” Brett shuddered and drank some more beer. “The rest was all Cole’s.”

“Cole?”

“Yeah, the medical examiner; he was supposed to do the autopsy.”

“Oh, shit. Ed must have been the one to find him,” Karen said.

“Ed?” Foggy’s nails clinked on his bottle. “Who’s Ed?”

“He works at the morgue; I got to know him when I was working at the Bulletin.”

“ _Journalists_ ,” Brett said glumly. “ _Lawyers_.”

“Hey, at least we’re not cutting people open for a living,” Foggy said. “Or putting the innocent into prison.”

“Ugh, _please_ , not now. You know that’s not what we do.”

“Hey, it’s our brand.” Matt was very proud he wasn’t slurring (yet). “Got to work on it, you know? Nelson and Murdock, here to help folks get out of the NYPD’s clutches.”

“And Page,” Karen said.

“And Page.” You had to agree with Karen, especially on that. A drunk _and_ pissed Karen was too much to handle for anyone. So, they all agreed. Matt tried nodding too but that made his brain feel like it was about to slide right out of his skull, so he stopped right away.

“Wait.” Foggy sounded like he’d just had An Idea, so Matt turned his head _very carefully_ in his direction. “Does that mean the dead guy this Cole was about to saw open was not, in fact, dead?”

“And how do you know about the blood thing?” Karen added.

“What drunk thing?”

“Blood thing. _You_ are drunk, Brett. Not the thing.”

“What blood thing?”

“If Cole hadn’t started the autopsy, how did they know about the blood?”

Holy shit, how could Karen still be coherent? Matt was in awe. He’d had, like, three beers, and the world was tilting already. He used to be better with booze, before. Well, okay, he and Foggy weren’t drinking as much now as they had been in college, plus, yeah – Daredevil. He couldn't drink before putting on the mask.

“They know it’s not Cole’s, so who else can it be?”

“Maybe someone came to get the corpse?”

“Nah, wait.” Brett did something on his phone, then put it back in his pocket. “Yeah, so they’d apparently gotten John Doe’s blood type, and it fits what’s on the saw but not the rest.”

“Shit, and it’s not even October anymore,” Foggy said. “Damn.”

“Yeah. Weird too, because John Doe had only one hand and was probably blind. And yet he managed to think that thaw in Cole’s gut.”

“To what?”

“To think – ah, shit. Sink that saw.”

“Aw, Brett, light of my life, you're so, so drunk. And John Doe’s _definitely_ a zombie,” Foggy said.

Matt was feeling way less drunk and way more nauseous all of a sudden. “What hand?” he asked. “You said he had only what hand. Which one was missing?”

“The right one.”

The nausea was getting worse. “How old was he?”

“Hey, they don’t know!”

“Older, younger?”

“Older guy.”

That was it. “I’m going to the morgue.”

“Matt? Matty, no; why?” Ah, Fogs. Always the voice of reason. Well, not _quite_ always, but often.

“You think the family’s going to prosecute? You want to take on the case? We’re investigating Cole’s death, but...”

What? No. But Matt couldn’t really talk about Stick while Brett was around, could he? “I, um, I’m going _home_. Slip of the tongue. I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” he said. “We’ve got a long day in court tomorrow, right Fogs?”

“Uh.”

“ _Right, Fogs?_ ”

“Sure, yeah.”

Matt didn’t have to fake being drunk; when he stood up he had to grab the back of his chair so he didn’t faceplant on the floor. His thoughts were clear, but his legs felt like jelly. He wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the alcohol or because of something else, though. Maybe both.

“I’ll walk you home, buddy.” Foggy’s hand landed on his arm, and Matt was absolutely not grateful.

“M’fine,” he said. Because he had to say it.

“You’re swaying.”

“You are,” Brett confirmed. “Go home, yeah? Having to deal with lawyers is bad enough, but if you’re drunk or hungover tomorrow… I’ll deny I know you.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Foggy said. “C’mon, Matty, onwards and out.”

“I’ll walk with you for a bit, fresh air will do me good. Thank God I didn’t drink the eel, though!” Karen giggled, then her fingers clamped around Matt’s free elbow. Flanked by the two of them, he got out of Josie’s after waving goodbye to Brett.

Once they were only a few blocks away from Matt’s apartment, Foggy spoke again.

“Okay, so first: what the hell, and second: _what the hell?_ You didn’t misspeak, right? You really want to go to the morgue.”

“Yeah.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Karen paused. “Sort of.”

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it. She wasn’t wrong.

“Something’s really bothering you; you’re not making a blind joke.” Foggy stopped and faced him. “Talk to us.”

“I…” He had to tell them, but not in the middle of the street. He waved in the general direction of his apartment and asked, “Coffee?”

“Matt, I swear – ”

“Yes,” Karen said. “Coffee, right now, at your place.”

Foggy sighed, but he didn’t ask anything else until they were all inside Matt’s apartment. “Look, I know dead people coming back to life aren’t entirely unheard of in your world, but... ” He didn’t mention Elektra, and Matt was grateful. He couldn't deal with that right now, even if her smell was in his nose and her voice in his ears and her skin under his fingers and – but no, not now. Not the time. Not her.

“Stick,” he finally said.

“The original blind ninja?”

“Yeah.”

“Matt, _no_. He died what, a year ago?”

“Older guy, blind, right hand cut off. Not quite dead after all.” Matt fussed with his coffee machine, but his hands were shaking and he spilled coffee grounds on the kitchen counter. He took a deep breath. “You don’t know what he’s capable of; _I_ don’t know what he’s capable of, he…”

“He’s dead. Matt, that’s insane.” Karen pushed him away from the counter and started cleaning it. “Look, I’ll call Ed tomorrow, ask if he’s got a picture of that guy, all right?”

Matt waved at his own face. “I can’t really recognize him, can I?”

“No, but I can. Maybe. I saw him; that one time I came to see you and, uh. I saw him. Here.” And she’d found Elektra in his bed, recovering from almost dying.

“It’s him. I know it’s him. He’s back, he’s…”

Foggy’s warm hands landed on his shoulders, led him to the couch, and pushed down. “Sit down before you keel over, okay?”

“I’m fine.” Karen snorted behind him. “He’s got – he was Chaste, he had the full training, he could slow down his vitals like I never could, he could… he could… I’ll never be as good as he is.”

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy mumbled. “Seriously, Matt,” he went on in a louder voice, “I know you have, uh, baggage, with the guy, but… he was already old and seriously injured when El – when he got skewered, right? You can’t go on hero-worshipping him like you did when you were ten.”

“I’m not. He was an asshole.” Stick had saved him, yes, he’d saved Matt from himself when everything was just too much and he just couldn’t cope, he’d given him the means to find a purpose in his life, but… he wasn’t idolizing him. Foggy was absolutely wrong on that.

“We are not going to tackle your daddy issues right now, but – ”

“He wasn’t my dad, Fogs.”

“No,” Karen said gently. Too gently. “He wasn’t.”

Matt rubbed his face. It was scratchy, and he was surprised to find some wetness too. “Don’t mention my dad.” He was too drunk for that. “Look, I’ll just… let’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll try and find out more, all right?”

Foggy sat next to him on the couch. “Do you want me to stay?”

What? No. He didn’t need to be _coddled_ , did he? He could hear Stick’s mocking voice in his head and he wasn’t, in fact, drunk enough for _that_. “I’m fine. Go home, Fogs.”

“I can – ”

“You too,” he told Karen.

“If it’s him,” Foggy said. “Just in case, but… if it’s him. You don’t think he’s going to come after you, do you?”

Matt sighed. He didn't know anything anymore. “No. I’ll be – ” Karen cleared her throat. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. When we’re less full of alcohol.”

“Oh, yeah. Hungover decisions are way better than drunk ones.” Foggy sounded amused, at least, so they were – yeah, they were fine. They’d be fine.

Matt tried to spend the rest of the night with his senses stretched out as far as he could, hoping and fearing what they’d find; but he finally lost the battle to sleep when the city around him started to wake up.

* * *

The scar pulled when Elektra turned to kill another minion of the Hand. It caught on the fabric of her blouse when she got undressed at night. It absorbed the heat differently when she showered. In short, it did everything it could to call to her.

The scar was even, neat, well-healed. It had no reason to attract attention. She had countless others.

Elektra ignored it. She did not think of Matthew's hands on her neck, of his careful stitches. She refused to remember.

She had lost track of how much time had passed since Midland Circle. Some days, it seemed like the time stretched endlessly, full of too much sameness. One body fell just like any other.

When she woke in the middle of the night, the building pressing down on her, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, it could have been just days.

Midland Circle had fallen and with it Elektra's world. She had woken alone and climbed from the wreckage of the building alone. She'd made a ruin of her hands trying to find Matthew in the rubble, but to no avail.

Searching New York had been fruitless: Matthew was in no hospital, and his friends mourned his death. If he had been alive, Franklin would have known, surely. So Elektra mourned him as well.

She didn't question why she hadn't died. She had survived death before, after all. Whatever the Hand had done to her seemed to have made death harder to achieve, something Elektra tried not to think about.

Death had been taken from her, yet another way that her existence had been altered without her consent, but no more.

Elektra holed up in one of her properties, having let the proper people know she was alive. She trained, finding teachers to advance her martial arts skills; and she kept her ear to the ground, listening for news of the Chaste or the Hand. Many of them had gone underground, fearful of the deaths that had come to their fellows in New York. Enough had died that people said that the organizations were no more, but Elektra knew that wasn’t the truth. When she heard of them, she went to them.

Chaste or Hand, they all died the same. So much for their principles.

In the early mornings, when she had slept as long as her body would allow, she scrolled through the internet, sliding down rabbit holes in an attempt to find the last remaining members of the organizations that had tried to control her.

Later, she couldn't say how she had reached the video; she'd clicked so many links that she doubted she could recreate her search path if she tried.

Elektra had actually turned away from the video, half-listening to it as she got herself a drink. She heard but didn't really process the sounds of the two men talking, and she frowned at the mention of New York.

By the time she got back to her laptop, already planning to switch to a different video – New York was still a place she didn’t like to think about – the taller one was ribbing the shorter one about ghosts.

"Not a ghost, Shane. This guy has to be a zombie."

Elektra paused, her hand hovering over the mouse.

"Zombie, of course. That's definitely what this guy was, Ryan." While she could appreciate the sarcasm, Elektra was hardly about to deny the existence of zombies.

"Look. You saw the reports. The guy had scar tissue from a _sword cut_ in his chest. Do you think you could just bounce back from a sword cut?"

Someone with a sword injury in New York. Interesting, but it happened.

"... not really, no."

"No!"

"But they're not always fatal."

"Dude, they are when they're in the chest. But this guy healed from it. And I haven't told you the best part."

The taller man, Shane, sounded amused as he replied, "What's the best part?"

"This guy? He had already been in the morgue."

"No kidding. Isn't that the whole point of this? He was in the morgue and then he vanished, killed the mortician or whoever?"

"Medical examiner, and he was in the morgue a _year_ ago. And then he vanished. And when he was in the morgue a year ago, he was dead due to the giant sword cut in his chest. You know, the one that's healed now?"

A year. Elektra sat at her desk once more and studied the video. It had only been posted a few days ago, but already had thousands of hits.

"Okay, that's kind of weird, but how do they know it’s the same guy? I mean, gaping sword wounds in the chest aren't exactly common, but it could happen, right?"

"Nah, see, this is not your usual guy. For one thing, he was – _is_ – blind. Imagine the jerk who sticks a sword in a blind guy."

Elektra sighed.

"Hey, blind guys can be criminals or whatever, too."

She decided she liked this Shane fellow.

"Okay, I guess," Ryan acknowledged. "I mean, killing the medical examiner is not the act of a nice guy. But it had to be the same person. Blind, sword cut, and he's missing a hand. Unless you want to tell me there are two people who fit that description."

Elektra swore. Stick. It had to be. She ignored the rest of the men's banter as she tried to think what it could mean.

Stick, alive. She had killed him; she was certain. But, as she well knew, death was not necessarily a permanent condition, and Stick had trained. If anyone could do it, he could.

Elektra started the video from the beginning, but she knew that watching it would not change the facts.

She was going to have to return to New York and finish the job.

_All the technology in the world_ , Elektra reflected as she waited at the baggage carousel. _People coming back to life, and I still have to waste my time in transit._

Of course, she had traveled first class, but she still had to spend hours sitting in a tin can. Perhaps she would have a word with Tony Stark while she was in New York, see if he had any plans for a teleportation device.

Her bag finally arrived and Elektra hefted it with relief, still vaguely annoyed with the regulations that wouldn’t let her bring her sai in carry-on luggage. She could, of course, buy new ones in New York, but that was tiresome, and her sai were _hers_. She knew the weight of them, their balance, the feel of them. She remembered the day Stick had placed them in her hands, how proud she had been.

She had used other weapons, of course – had she only imagined the katana plunging into Stick’s chest? – or none at all, but she always returned to her sai.

Her driver was waiting for her, as expected, and despite traffic, she was soon at her penthouse.

Matthew had never been in her New York flat, though she’d imagined bringing him there when she bought it. That seemed like a thousand years ago. It almost felt worse that he had never been there. She could imagine him working in the kitchen, standing in the doorway. In the shower. In her bed.

She told herself she was being ridiculous, that she shouldn’t see Matthew around every corner just because she was in his city. Of course, she had been telling herself to stop seeing Matthew around every corner for the past year.

“ _STOP._ ”

Her shout rang through her flat, but its echoes dispelled Matthew’s presence, at least for the moment. Still, she found herself wanting to be anywhere but there. She reclaimed her sai and pulled her hair back, ready for business.

It was reconnaissance, not escape. She needed to get the lay of the land. She was certainly not running away. She would see if the little bistro around the corner was still there, get a light meal, and then see if she could face the emptiness of the flat.

That, at least, was the plan, but Elektra had learned long ago not to count on plans. She was, at least, alert for danger; Stick had trained that into her. _Ima_ , he would say, to remind her to pay attention to the moment. _Zanshin._ After a while, she had no longer needed the reminder; she tried not to think about Stick’s smile, his, _Good, Ellie._ Nor did she think about how she had killed him.

It didn’t take long for her to realize that the man was following her. She matched her breathing to his, and when he reached for her as they passed a narrow alley, she was ready.

He was good; she would have to give him that. When she twisted away from his grasp, he had another move ready, sweeping at Elektra’s legs with a hook kick in an attempt to take her down. She rolled to the ground, wishing she had worn a different blouse, and pulled the man with her, finally getting a look at his face.

Something about his features pulled at her memory; perhaps she recalled seeing him standing behind Alexandra Reid.

“Did you come for him?” he panted.

Elektra didn’t have to ask who he meant. “Is he alive?” After all, she had come to New York on the strength of a YouTube video. While she didn’t trust this man, minion of the Hand as he likely was, it would still be good to hear what he knew. He hesitated and Elektra grasped his face, quick as a flash, and made use of her favorite pressure points.

The man writhed in her grip, and Elektra said, her voice full of scorn, “Don’t be a baby. You know I can do far worse than this.”

“I don’t know,” the man replied, his words muffled by her hand. “I don’t know if he’s alive.”

“Well, you’re worthless.” She rolled to her feet, watching the man pick himself up. “Shall I let you live?”

Obviously a slow learner, he lunged for Elektra.

She made short work of him and left his corpse in the alley, so other members of the Hand would know she was not to be trifled with.

* * *

Confusion.

The first thing he remembers is confusion, then fear.

Something sharp on his skin, it hurts, it wakes him up. But it _hurts_ ; his body reacts and then – no more knife, or whatever it was, on his chest. A katana, maybe.

It’s cold where he is, though. He’s sitting naked on cold metal. His own heart is fast, too fast; he’s breathing like he’s run for hours. He can’t hear anyone else around. He tries to slide down the bench or whatever it is he’s on, but his legs are wobbly and he has to hang on to it for a moment. He lets his heart, his lungs calm down; then he takes a first step. Then another. On the third one, his foot squelches on something warm and – blood. The smell, it’s familiar. Blood. He pats himself down, but it’s not his, so he doesn’t care.

He tries to think. What does he need? Warmth, shelter, _safety_. Water, food. He doesn’t have any of these things. He finds the body where the blood comes from, but the clothes aren’t salvageable. He knocks on the metal bench closest to him, listens to the echoes, tries to find a locker room, an office. Something. A place where people would leave a coat.

It takes him some time, he has to stop and sit on chairs and lean on walls pretty often; but after a while he finds a lab coat and a winter coat and heavy snow boots. He doesn’t remember that it’s winter, but then again he doesn’t remember much. He doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t remember his name – does he even have a name? Everyone has a name, but he can’t say he does. But names, they don’t matter. Ensure survival first, worry about names later.

He searches around a bit more and hah, there’s a tap running water that’s safe to drink, and then he finds a stash of protein bars. He tries to nibble on one, just some fuel to tide him over, but his stomach protests so he stashes the bars in some pockets and a bottle of… something in another. It smells terrible, like sugar and fake orange, but it will still help. He takes what he needs.

The noises in the building are ramping up, more vibrations, more voices, the electricity humming all the time, neons in his ears. He can’t stay; he needs a place that’s safe. This is a too-large place, with too many people. He has to get out.

He lets it all come to him, the sounds and the smells and – it’s a hospital. And he is, more precisely, in a morgue. It smells like death and preservatives. What is he doing in a morgue?

It doesn't matter, but it gives him an idea; he searches around until he finds a few scalpels. Cutting tools are always useful. Then, he waits for corridors to be empty, he tucks his face down in his stolen coat to hide his features. He has to get out.

He gets out. It’s cold outside, and the wind is icy on his naked calves. He must find more clothes. He follows his nose to dumpsters, but they smell like rotten food or dirty diapers, and he leaves them. Maybe a shop, maybe a laundromat – oh, a dry-cleaner. The smell is very distinctive, and it's empty. It will do. He forces his way in after wiggling a scalpel in the old lock and a few minutes later he’s back out again, warm and clean. He smells like death, but it's all the morgue disinfectants, and the clothes are fine. It’ll do. He even finds some bills in the register, not a lot and he can’t tell their denomination but it's better than nothing.

It feels like early morning; he can hear radios and TVs, the taxis and the coffee shops. He’s pretty sure he’s in New York from what he can sense, but he wouldn’t bet his one remaining hand on it. Ah, yes. He lost his right hand, somehow. He sighs. Only one hand and no shelter, but warm clothes and dry boots and food in his pockets. Disgusting food, but food. He makes another attempt at eating the protein bar he started earlier; it’s not any better but his stomach seems a bit settled, so he forces more down.

He needs shelter, now. Somewhere dry and not too cold, where he could maybe sleep. He’s not going to ask anyone, but he has to find something, and soon. He’s just woken up, but he’s already bone-tired; he thinks he could fall asleep right here and now if he stopped walking. He can’t, he’s not a kid, no one is going to pick him up and take him somewhere safe and – he’s not a kid, but he remembers kids.

 _He remembers kids_. He stops in a doorway and takes a moment. Does he have kids? He can feel the memories are just right there, waiting for him to pluck them up from the jumbled mess of his brain. High-pitched voices, determined thump, thumps. Longish hair brushing on fabric. He moves his lips, tries to form words, names; but he can’t. He doesn’t know who they are, but he remembers their smells. Two of them, changing with the years but still familiar. Always high-pitched voices, so they’re still young. He has kids, or grand-kids, and he has to find them. They’ll know who he is.

A vague sense of dread grows in his chest, right where he felt a big, mostly healed scar when he changed clothes. Are they even still alive? People die; he remembers _that_. Even children. There is a war, yes? Wars don’t discriminate. He has to find them. If he finds them, that ache will disappear, and he’ll know what to do. Keep them safe, teach them how to be safe. That's what he’ll do. He’d never hurt children.

He can hear the city get busier around him; there are more cars and more people, more vibrations from the subway and tunnels, more everything. More smells of food and coffee and exhaust. At least it’s cold enough the trash in the dumpsters doesn’t smell as bad as in summer. He remembers _that_ , somehow. The smell so strong that it clung to his tongue, coated his throat. Oily and rotten soft. He remembers a voice coming from his waist, complaining about it. Saying, “But it didn’t bother me, before!” Before what, he doesn’t know. Of course.

He is tired. The protein bar helped, but he's _tired_ , and he needs to stop. To rest. He walks past places that reek of incense and burning candles, and he thinks of going in and sitting in a pew, but something makes him turn away. He doesn’t know why, but he… can’t. He can’t go in there. So he walks on, then he stumbles on, and then he knows he can’t go on for much longer. He goes into the first building he can.

No one stops him. He can hear computer fans whirring, soft voices further away, the smell of glue and paper. And, best of all, chairs. He sits in the first one he finds, his legs giving way more than folding. He’s weak. If he’s attacked, he couldn't defend himself, he’s aware of that. He should be able to. He feels vaguely ashamed, although he can’t quite pinpoint why. He’s not young, and he’s only got one hand, and yet his gut tells him none of that should matter, that he’s still expected to be able to fight. Who expects that, he doesn’t know. He focuses on keeping his spine straight and not letting himself go entirely. He wonders if it’s pride or instinct – show strength, show confidence. He thinks he should care, but he doesn't. Not really.

“Sir?” A hand lands on his arm and he jumps, almost throws a punch. But it’s his right arm, and he’s not going to punch anyone with his stump; not yet anyway. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

He shouldn't have been surprised. Weak. Remiss. He doesn’t know what to answer, so he gives the woman a vague grunt.

“Sir, do you need help with the computers? You’ve been sitting here for a while and you haven’t touched the – oh.” He hears her gasp when he turns to face her. She’s seen her face. His eyes. They’re not covered.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m blind.” Her problem, not his.

“Our computers here are not set up for visually impaired people.” She regrouped quickly, he has to give it to her. “We do have a few with text-to-speech software and one with a Braille reader that a patron donated a while ago, though. Or we can help you with your search if you’d prefer.”

He got in here to rest, not for a chat. The woman is annoying, her voice grating; her insistence on helping him makes him want to scream. _Don’t wait for other people to help you, don’t ask them either. No one will, unless they’re going to use it against you later._ He recognizes his voice. Who was he speaking to? _I won’t, sensei, I swear._ His heart does a funny thing.

“My children,” he says.

“Your children? Oh, of course. We can call them for you, if you’d like.” Her voice has taken that particular tone and rhythm one adopts when talking to someone who’s not quite there. He feels very much there, his spine straining to keep him sitting straight and his every bone feeling brittle and pushing against his skin. He sighs.

“Yes,” he says.

“Do you have their numbers?” He shakes his head. “Their names?” She waits, but he doesn't give her anything else. What is he going to say: _They’re young, and they speak in middle C_? No.

So, he shrugs and doesn’t speak.

“All right,” she finally says. “Do you have any necklace, or bracelet, that I could look at? Or a wallet? There might be some helpful information there.”

“No.” He shows his empty wrist, pulls down the collar of his shirt.

She’s silent for a while. “Right. Well, you can stay here as long as you’d like, we’re open till 6pm today. It’s, uh, 10:15. Would you like something warm to drink? Coffee, tea?”

 _Don’t ask for help. Don’t ask for anything. Take it, or do without._ But it is offered, and he is still stiff from the cold outside. “Tea, please.” He thinks he could use a beer, but she probably wouldn’t give him one.

He hears her walk away, hears the water boil in the kettle, hears her talk with her colleagues. _Old guy, a bit lost,_ she says. _Call the police?_ Another says. _I’ll call the shelter,_ Ms. Tea says.

He spends the day in the library, drinking tea and pissing and eating a few more bars and fighting sleep. Ms. Tea brought him some audiobooks and a radio, and she finds him sunglasses a patron had forgotten. She says she’s amazed he’s managed to find the library on his own, but he makes up a tale about losing his cane and going in the first building he found after that. She seems to believe him.

“I called a friend of mine,” she tells him. “She runs a shelter for older people like you who need a place to stay, and she’ll help you find your family.”

 _I don’t have a family_ , he wants to say, _but I have children_. He knows she’d think him even more senile if he said it out loud, so he only nods.

“Do you have a name we could use for you?” He shrugs. “Any name you’d like.”

He listens to the voices in his head. He focuses on the one that had longer hair, a ponytail swaying. “Sensei,” he answers.

“Sensei. You’re a teacher, then?”

Maybe. “Hm.” There. Non-committal.

She keeps coming back to his corner, bringing him tea and snacks from the staff kitchen and a bit of conversation. He doesn't want the conversation, but he likes the snacks, so he puts up with it. She’s offering; he’s not asking. He owes her nothing. He listens to people coming in and out; he listens to the radio and books she gave him. The hours pass.

He’s listening to the radio, one ear covered by the headphones and the other not. He finds he needs to keep one on his surroundings, at least; if he doesn’t then he feels like anyone might get the jump on him. The library is closing soon and then they’ll take him to this shelter. He doesn’t really want to go, but it will be dry and warm, and they’ll give him food. It will do, for a while. And he’s not asking, they offered. He’ll take it. For now.

Ms. Tea comes back just before six; she puts away the radio and headphones and all the things she gave him so he’d be entertained through the day, and then she leads him to where the staff are chatting after their workday, putting on their coats and rinsing their mugs.

“This is Sister Jane,” she says. “She volunteers at the shelter I told you about. They’ll take good care of you until they find your children, okay?”

He shrugs, then thinks maybe he shouldn’t be so dismissive. Even if she’s a _Sister_. It makes him think of incense and dry wafers and a little boy – his little boy, yes. A memory of paper folded into a bracelet floats up to the surface of his mind, but he dismisses it. This he remembers: it is not something he can dwell on, so he doesn’t.

“Thank you,” he finally replies. He hates saying these words. He’s not quite sure why, but he hates it. But he also knows he needs food that’s not protein bars, a bed. He needs to regroup.

A hand on his arm, and a new voice. He grits his teeth and doesn’t react to the touch. “Hello, I’m Sister Jane. I’m going to lead you to the shelter now; it’s not far, but if you’d prefer we can get a taxi. It’s up to you and how you feel.”

“Walking’s fine,” he says. He’s already accepting too much; a taxi would be ridiculous. He can walk.

They walk.

The sister is chatty, too. Maybe they all think that because he’s blind, they should never, ever shut up. He bears it, because in the end he’ll get a place to sleep and a roof over his head, at least for a little while. He’s not going to stay, anyway.

Once they get there, she leads him to a little room with two beds. She tells him he’ll be on his own for now, that he won’t be sharing; she talks about a nurse that comes every morning to check on the residents and that he’ll have to see her, too. That it’s procedure. Then, she shows him where the communal restrooms and showers are, the clean towels and the soap, and she tells him residents are expected to keep clean. She talks about clothes and getting fresh ones tomorrow, and more things he doesn’t really listen closely to. He pays a bit more attention when she mentions mealtimes, and she tells him someone will come for him then since he doesn't have a watch. He doesn't tell her he can smell the food cooking already.

Then, right before leaving, she puts something in his hand. “I brought you a cane; it is the folding kind. We have a few left in the orphanage where I work, from when we had a blind boy with us. It was years ago, but he still comes to visit. We asked, and he said it was fine if we gave them away to people in need, so here you are. Let us know if you need anything else.”

She pats his hand and finally, finally leaves him alone.

He sleeps for most of the next few days. He doesn’t get a roommate, and no one disturbs him. The food is bland but filling, and he feels his strength is returning. The nurse who examined him made surprised noises at his stump and chest scar, and then some more when she spotted older injuries, but she’s mostly concerned by his amnesia. She wants him to go to a doctor, but he has no money and the shelter can’t pay for much besides what they already provide. “I’m not senile,” he tells her. “It’ll come back.” She lets him be after that. Other residents have bigger problems than he has, and they promised their goal was only to help, not pry into residents’ lives or judge them.

Sister Jane says the city services are understaffed and that an old guy who isn’t causing issues won’t be a priority, and so for now they call him Scott because he had a tartan scarf when he came in. He doesn't care what they call him, so, Scott it is. He’s not Scottish as far as he knows, although some scotch would be appreciated. But they don’t have alcohol here, and so he has to do without.

He asks if he can leave, not that he won’t anyway if they say no, but it would be easier not to have to take everything with him if he has to escape. They don’t want to say he’s a prisoner, but they doubt him. He can feel it. Because he’s blind, because he doesn’t remember his name… He threatens to leave and never come back, that they’d find his dead, frozen body in the streets one morning and that it would be their fault. He says he’s a free citizen, not like he can prove he’s a citizen of anywhere, but it does the trick.

Or maybe they just want to get rid of him because he’s an administrative headache.

It doesn’t matter; he can leave and come back. He still packs his pockets with food and stuffs a blanket in a bag, just in case. He still has the scalpels he’d stolen from the morgue hidden under a floorboard, and he takes them too.

And then he goes out. Maybe something will spark a memory. He has children to find and to teach. Children too young to be on their own, and the world is hostile.

He walks in the city, block after block after block, his senses on alert for anything that would jog his memory. He walks with his stump in a pocket, the cane tapping in front of him and clearing the way for him just as the sound helps him form a mental map around him. Low-rise buildings, then skyscrapers; alleys and large streets; empty lots and busy coffee shops. Schools, libraries, playgrounds. Nothing is particularly familiar. He thinks he’s been here before; he probably knows the neighborhood, but no voice, no heartbeat, no smell is right.

He sits on a park bench for a while, focuses on his breathing and his heartbeat. _Meditation_ , yes. That is a thing he used to do. It’s familiar, and his body and mind fall into it easily. It helps, and he finds the persistent aches in his stump and chest are not as bad after a while. It’s probably as good as it’ll ever get, so he makes his way back to the shelter.

Something makes him stop when he’s half a block away. A voice, and when he resumes walking and gets closer, a smell. A heartbeat.

He taps his way inside, and the voice stops. The heartbeat goes faster. It’s all familiar, but it’s not a child. It’s a man.

“Hi,” he says, then waits.

“Stick.” The voice breaks. “Sister Jane said – I thought…” The man comes closer, and he’s got a cane too, swiping the floor in front of him. He’s blind. “You’re alive.”

“Who are you?” The man in front of him takes a deep breath. It’s a bit shuddery. He’s emotional. He knows him, and it means he knows his name. “Do you know my name?”

“Stick,” the younger man says.

That is not a name. “And yours?”

“Matt. You used to call me Matty, back then.”

Ice cream, braided paper. Incense, beer, blood. “Are you my son?”

Matt, Matty, doesn’t answer right away. He’s overwhelmed, his heartbeat says so. The air tastes a little like salt. Something's not quite right. “I…”

“I remember children. A little boy and a little girl. I have to find them, teach them. There is a war.” That, he remembers. “They must be able to fight.” This is very important. This is his purpose.

Matty turns away from him to speak with a woman. She’s one of the administrative people; he never cared to learn their names.

“Roberta, thank you so much for taking care of him. He’s, uh. He doesn’t have anyone left to care for him, but I owe him.” Matty’s heartbeat does another strange little thing; he’s not lying, but he’s not saying the entire truth. His voice is tight; he’s repressing something. “I’ll take him off your hands; he can stay with me.”

“Are you sure? He’s got no ID, and we don’t… Well, you’re a lawyer, Mr. Murdock. You’ll know what to do.”

A lawyer? Something feels wrong. If Matty was his kid, he wouldn't be a lawyer. He’d be a fighter. “You’re not a warrior,” he says.

“No.” There again, the heartbeat thing. Not a lie, not the truth either.

“You’re not my kid.”

“You told me – no, I’m not.” Matty takes a step closer, and he takes a step back. He’s wary. “You’re not my dad, but you did teach me a lot when I was a child.”

Did he? Matty holds himself like someone unafraid, like he’s ready to fight at any moment. But he’s a lawyer. He’s a lawyer, and that’s all kinds of wrong.

Stick, or Scott, or whoever he is, turns away and runs. Matty calls after him, but he doesn’t follow. He mustn’t have taught him much, if he can’t.

He’s not the boy from his memory.

* * *

Elektra avoided Hell’s Kitchen. She told herself Stick wouldn’t be there, not with Matthew gone. She knew she was making excuses for staying away, but she allowed herself her weakness, just this once.

Trying to put herself in Stick’s mindset, she visited the Chaste safehouses she knew of in the city and found most of them abandoned; at least one showed signs of recent occupancy but a hasty departure. Perhaps they knew she was there and what she had been doing to their fellows. Smart on their part, but not convenient; she needed information.

She didn't feel much optimism as she approached the final safe house she knew, a tiny flat in Harlem, but she had to check it. If she didn’t, she knew that the lack of knowledge would gnaw at her. So she did as she had been taught, what had been ingrained in her since she was a child, and finished the job. She thought it would be quick: look, see that nobody was there, and leave. As she reached the front door, though, she saw that it had been forced open, the door splintered and then apparently secured closed. Police tape crisscrossed the door; of course, she opened it anyway.

Inside, a familiar scent lingered, though her mind groped to place it. Incense? Yes, that was it. They had burned it as part of the rituals where she had lived when she was a child, burning as they meditated. That the scent remained suggested that something had happened there recently. Elektra remembered how the smell had clung to her clothing. Back then, it had been comforting.

The cramped front room held a combination living room and kitchen, and Elektra was glad she had other options. A couch showed signs of recent occupancy, a blanket pushed over one arm, a pillow at the other. Investigating the bathroom showed nothing that Elektra wanted to study too closely, including dubious personal hygiene and a decided lack of aiming abilities. Was this really a member of the Chaste? Surely he had been taught better than that.

It was in the third and final room of the flat that Elektra made her discovery: a person-sized box, hastily padded with blankets, surrounded by incense burners, ash, and slapdash symbols painted on the floor.

The box’s lid, Elektra noted, had been shoved to one side. Elektra moved closer to investigate and found… yes, a grey hair at one end. Stick. Had someone brought him there, performed some sort of ritual? But the video had said that he had killed someone at the morgue, so he had clearly been alive then. What had happened?

Elektra made a soft sound of frustration, then took out her phone and snapped a few photos of the scene.

As she eased through the door, avoiding the police tape, she heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared. Turning, already reaching for her sai, she saw an older woman, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“You part of that cult? You don’t really look like the type.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s right. Classy lady like you, of course you’re not mixed up in all that.”

Elektra pulled the door closed behind her and pulled on all her considerable charm, smiling winningly at the woman. “You live here?”

The woman nodded, gesturing behind her to the only other door on the floor. “Just the two apartments up here. I’m Marge.”

“Ella,” Elektra replied, after a beat of hesitation. She’d used that name on and off; it was less distinctive than her actual name, and not the nickname Stick had given her. “You know what happened? I’m looking for – someone I know.”

“Oh, was he in the cult? Poor guy. What a mess.”

Elektra made a vague gesture of uncertainty. “I’m trying to find out. I think he was here, but I just don’t know what happened.”

“Well, let me tell you,” Marge began. “This place was mostly empty until about a year ago when this young guy moved in.”

“Young?” Elektra repeated, her eyebrows lifting in enquiry.

“Maybe in his early twenties. Scared-looking kid, jumping at shadows. I think he just went out to get food, stayed in the rest of the time. Don’t know how he was making any money or paying for the apartment. Rent's not a lot here, for the city, but it's not nothing, either”

“Perhaps the… cult was financing it,” Elektra suggested. “Did anyone ever visit him?”

“Once or twice that I saw, but they looked even more nervous than him. I guess I’d be nervous, too, if I was in a cult. They were probably on drugs.”

“Probably,” Elektra agreed. “But how did you know they were in a cult?”

“Well, I didn’t, at first,” Marge confided. “I just thought he was a quiet, young guy, and I was glad there wasn’t going to be any loud parties or anything. But then the chanting started.”

“Chanting?”

“For hours at a time. It started after the last guy visited. Maybe he was higher up in the cult or something because I heard him yelling at the kid. And then he started chanting. I don’t know how that kid did it. My throat would hurt if I was doing that for as long as he did.”

“What were they saying? Could you make out any words?”

“It wasn’t English, I can tell you that. But it was the same thing over and over and over again.” She chanted a few words then laughed, shaking her head. “Got so I could hear it in my sleep. I’d go bang on his door, and he’d always be all apologetic, but then it would just start up again.”

Elektra nodded. The woman hadn’t gotten it quite right, but she recognized the words as one of the chants from her upbringing. It sharpened mental acuity and increased alertness.

Well. It wasn't quite raising the dead, but perhaps it could have helped if Stick had got partway there on his own.

“Did you ever see an older man, one with a missing hand?”

Marge’s face crumpled. “Oh, honey, is that your friend?”

Elektra thought back; she had definitely not said _friend_. “That’s the person I’m seeking.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That guy died. I didn’t see the body, but one of the cops said he had a big, old scar on his chest like somebody had stabbed him. But I guess if it healed, that’s not what killed him. Who knows what that kid was getting up to in there?”

“Police?” Elektra probed.

“It was Brett who came. It was a regular guy in a uniform who came first, but when he saw what was going on, he called for Brett. Well, I guess I should say Detective Mahoney, but I’ve been going to church with his momma since he was in diapers, so I’m allowed to use his Christian name.”

Elektra took note of the name. “I’m sure you are. But why did the detective know to come here?”

“I think it was a gas leak that made the guy in the uniform come,” Marge said vaguely. “I was at bingo at church, so I wasn’t here for it, but I heard all about it.”

“And the police came?”

“And I guess they scared the young man, though who wouldn’t be scared if they had a body in their back room? He went out the fire escape, last anyone’s seen of him. They took your friend to the morgue, probably. But Brett would know more.”

Elektra nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “I’m sure he would,” she agreed.

Marge took a step back. Perhaps that smile had been a bit too predatory. “He’s a good boy, Brett is,” Marge said firmly.

“Of course he is,” Elektra replied. “Thank you so much for your assistance, Marge.”

“I’m so sorry about your friend.”

“So am I.”

Of course, Elektra did not go directly to the NYPD. Even if she knew which bureau was the proper one to find Detective Mahoney, she was hardly one to go into a situation blind. No, she went home, had a glass of wine, and did her research. She learned of his family – an aging mother, the matriarch of their now-diminished clan – and of his financials, which were certainly nothing impressive, though not bad for a civil servant. He had a reputation for being an honest police officer, and his father had been the same. He also had, Elektra noted wryly, a long association with Franklin Nelson. Of course he did.

It was with no small amount of reluctance that Elektra returned to Hell’s Kitchen. Mercifully, her encounters with Matthew had never involved the police station, though she certainly had no intention of actually entering that building. Instead, she watched the area at around lunchtime; when she saw Detective Mahoney leave, she followed him, just happening to end up in line behind him at the deli.

“There you go, Detective,” said the young man behind the counter as he handed over a paper-wrapped sandwich, earning himself a grin from Mahoney.

“Thank you. You gonna be there this weekend?”

“Ma would never forgive me if I skipped it.”

“Yeah, me too. Guess I’ll see you there.” Mahoney nodded in acknowledgment, then paused as he turned and saw Elektra behind him. She had chosen her wardrobe carefully: not fancy, but classy. She saw the Detective look and appreciate, as he should, but then his face grew more reserved. “Ma’am,” he greeted her.

“Are you a detective? Truly?” Elektra played up her accent just a bit and was pleased to see Mahoney’s smile.

“I am. Did you need some help?”

The young man behind the deli counter apparently decided that she was not in need of his services and turned to the next customer, and Elektra nodded. “I was just about to go into the station. I heard the oddest rumor about an acquaintance of mine, and I thought the police would be the right people to ask about it.”

Mahoney moved a bit away from the crowd around the deli counter, leading Elektra to take a seat at a table in the corner. “Well, we don’t really deal much in rumors. We’re more about facts at the NYPD.”

Elektra nodded. “Of course. I would expect nothing less.” Well, that wasn’t quite true, but Elektra wouldn’t say that; not, at least, to this particular officer. “But the rumor I heard was that my acquaintance killed someone, and I just find that hard to believe.” Also not true, but it fit with the persona Elektra was selling. She was a bit old to do innocence, but earnestness seemed to be working, as the detective offered her a sympathetic smile.

“Sometimes people can surprise you, and not in a good way. I’m sorry to hear that. But if you could alibi your friend, that would help, if they’ve been accused of something.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t seen him in a year. But, Detective, the last I heard of him, he was dead. So I’m not sure how he could be a killer.”

Mahoney's relaxed posture didn't change. Elektra only noted the way his eyes sharpened because she had been watching for it. Despite herself, she was impressed. "Could you describe your friend? Not sure if I'd be familiar with the case, as the NYPD isn't exactly a small organization, but I could ask around for you if you like."

"Oh, thank you. That would be marvelous. He's – well, he _was_ older, white-haired. Ah, he was blind and missing a hand as well."

That certainly got his attention. “We may have a case matching that description. If we did, it would still be an open investigation, so I couldn't go into details, but if you could give me your friend’s name…” His brows lifted meaningfully.

Elektra felt a vague sense of dismay as she was caught flat-footed, but then realized it wouldn't matter; it wasn't as if the Chaste monk who had apparently been watching over Stick would have provided him with identification. She listed one of the aliases he had used, settling back a little in her chair as it hit her again: she didn't actually know Stick's real name.

She'd asked him what his name was when she was small, had pestered him about it, even; he'd always dismissed the subject or given her a diversionary task to do, usually something unpleasant. The last time she had asked, not long before he left her, his face had gone cold and he'd said, "You don't need to know that, Ellie. You should have figured that out by now."

Stick had known everything about her when she was a child: her favourite foods, her best fighting skills, her desperate need to get things right. The way, when she inevitably wasn't _enough_ , she would withdraw. But he hadn't told her this most basic thing about himself.

Elektra snapped to the present as she felt a hand on her arm; she stiffened but managed not to react with violence.

It was the detective. From his compassionate expression, some of what she had been feeling must have shown on her face. "You okay?"

Elektra felt the brittleness of her smile and tried to smooth it into something warmer, though without much success. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

“Well,” Mahoney replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Your friend might have killed someone. Maybe you thought you knew him, and he turned out to be… different.”

Elektra’s smile froze. Actually, the detective was wrong. Stick killing someone was hardly a surprise. But if he was alive, would he remember that she had killed him? He had not been known for being merciful toward his enemies, after all, and Elektra…

Well. She wasn’t sure. Was she his enemy? Was he hers? So much of her feelings about Stick were wrapped up in fighting and working and never quite feeling like she had met his expectations.

“Well, my main concern is that I’m fairly certain he’s dead,” Elektra replied. “Last I checked, dead men couldn’t cause harm to anyone else.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Mahoney replied. “But I can look into this for you, run your friend’s name.”

“Thank you, yes, I’d appreciate it.”

Mahoney smiled, then, pointing out, “I didn’t get your name. I’m Brett.”

“Ella. Nice to meet you.” She extended a hand and was pleased by his grip: palm dry, not too much pressure. “Let me give you my number.” And she did, though of course, it was for a burner phone.

“I’ll see what I can do. But I’d better get back. My lunch break always seems to fly by, especially in such company.”

They both got to their feet and exchanged farewells, and Elektra watched him leave, assessing his gait, the way he carried himself. It was automatic, the way she would evaluate someone. She didn’t think she would end up opposing this detective, but it was always best to be prepared.

* * *

Stick.

He tries the name out in his head. _Stick_.

It’s better than Scott, that’s for sure.

Part of a tree, part of a whole, but one that’s been broken off. Dead. That feels appropriate, somehow.

He pauses in the alley where he huddles, listening. No sounds of pursuit. Maybe he’s lost… Matty. Was that his boy’s name? It feels right, but the lawyer can’t be his boy. He’s too old. His Matty was small, still ready to learn. This older Matty said that he taught him when he was young, but how could that be?

He’s just not sure. Everything is confusing. He takes a tighter grip on his cane and starts to move once more. _Keep moving, keep vigilant._ And he needs to find another place to stay; he can’t go back to that shelter. Whoever that lawyer was, he’ll be persistent. That was obvious.

His cane swinging before him, he realizes: a stick. Maybe that’s why.

Stick. It will do.

He puts some distance between himself and the shelter. The air is getting colder; the sun must be going down. It smells like snow. He needs to find some shelter. Picking up the pace, he tries to find an area without people; not exactly a simple thing, in New York.

He taps his cane, listening to the echoes, painting a picture in his mind. There: a door left ajar and no heartbeats within.

Thinking about what kind of idiots leave their doors open in Manhattan, he makes his way to it and juggles the cane as he pulls it open enough to let him fit through. He shoves it hard, but it doesn’t quite close behind him. Broken, maybe. The door grates and creaks, but he still can’t get it closed, so he gives up.

Within, a large space, but cluttered: chairs, couches, some sort of loft area. A warehouse? A theater with a balcony? He isn’t sure and finds he doesn’t much care; it’s out of the wind. Carefully, he listens as he makes his way through the room. People can disguise their heartbeats, after all, but he doesn’t find anyone.

There are stairs and he goes up, wanting to put more distance between himself and that door. Maybe he should have shoved a chair under it, but the thought of going back seems too hard, too far.

The stairs lead to a hallway, and he can sense the age in the building, the decay. It feels like a fitting place for him to be. The hallway opens into a large room, and he nods. Yes, here. He finds the corner farthest from the door, the inner wall, and drops his bag. The lawyer won’t find him here. He carefully places the cane where he won’t lose it and unfolds the blanket, then rolls up the bag to use it as a pillow. He manages a few mouthfuls of his purloined food and closes his eyes. He can rest.

He’s not sure what wakes him until he realizes that it must have been the creak of the door opening, the one leading outside. He struggles to his feet, but his back twinges. His hand aches, the missing one, and he imagines flexing it, but that does no good.

He fumbles in his pocket to assure himself that his scalpels are still there, the blades wrapped in a bit of rag, though his hand remembers a longer blade. Half-awake as he is, the room he’s in somehow feels oddly familiar. He does remember: a katana, a battle, a blade at a woman’s throat, and a deep sense of regret. He tries to remember more: who is the woman? Was he trying to kill her? Why did he let her live?

Footsteps approach and a heartbeat, guttering with agitation. He leaves the scalpels where they are for now but takes up his cane.

Why can’t they just leave him alone? It doesn’t sound like the lawyer, though. The door to the hall opens and brings with it the scent of a familiar perfume.

Familiar, yes, but why? The person who belongs to it, their heart skips a beat.

“You.”

A woman’s voice, low and quiet and full of some emotion that he can’t quite place.

“Do you know me?” he asks, hating the weakness of the question but needing to know. “Did that lawyer send you?” She seems to check a little at the question, but her voice is all scorn when she speaks.

“What are you doing _here?_ ”

He tries to think what’s wrong with him being in that place. “It’s going to snow tonight.” He senses her bafflement and adds, “I couldn’t stay at the shelter.”

“A shelter,” she echoes. “You. In a shelter.”

“The nun took me there. Too many people, though.”

She makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.

“Lady, I’m just trying to find my kids,” he adds. That really is the most important thing. What if they’re out in this weather?

“You have _children?_ ” she asks, sounding startled and perhaps a little jealous. Why would she be jealous? “When did you manage that?” She stays near the door and he approves of her wariness, even as he wishes he had clear access to the exit.

“A boy and a girl. They’re little. They shouldn’t be alone.”

“How old?” she asks, unsympathetic.

His mind blanks. “Little,” he repeats, unable to find the right numbers. “Oh, but you should see my girl. Smart as a whip, and so stubborn.” He can remember her just for an instant: her long hair, her eagerness to learn. He should be with her, with them.

“Another girl,” she says, her voice flat.

Another?

“Just the one. And a boy.” He remembers suddenly and smiles. “We were doing throws, and there she was, lifting guys twice her size. This one kid was being careful with her, setting her down light as a feather, and she got in his face and yelled at him. ‘Do you do that to everybody else?’ she said. She made the kid treat her just like the men, and when he slammed her on the ground, she got right back up and asked who was next. She’s amazing.” He’d been so proud of her, but he hadn’t said anything. The others had already thought he favored her, which of course he had.

The woman, though, her heart is beating faster. “You thought it was a good idea, letting grown men throw her around like that?” she asks, a tremor to her voice. “You don’t think she could have got hurt?”

“There’s a difference between getting hurt and getting –”

“– injured,” she says with him. “If you’re hurt, you keep going. Pain is okay. Injury is not.”

How does she know those words? He moves closer to her, but she recoils away from him, and he can hear cloth rustling, perhaps as she reaches for something. A weapon? He taps the cane against the ground, a strong strike, and in the echoes he can sense her upraised hands, though he can’t make out what she's holding.

“She won’t get injured,” he says. “She’s smart, strong. She knows what not to do. And pain? Pain can help you get better.”

There’s another rustling sound, and a sigh. “Pain hurts, to a child,” she says, her voice flat. “What they learn from it is to avoid it, however they can.”

“But my girl, she knew it was going to hurt and she still said to do it because she knew that was the best way to learn.”

“Or maybe she knew that there was more than one kind of pain, and that disappointing someone –” She stops and takes a deep, quivering breath that ends in a sound of frustration, then turns away and he can feel a breeze. Her hair?

“My girl has hair like that,” he says.

“What are your children’s names?” she asks, and her voice has a hardness to it that he admires.

But the names. What are their names? “I thought I knew,” he says.

“Where are they?” she demands.

“... not here.”

“What kind of parent _are_ you? You don’t know your children’s names, their ages, their location? How can you even call them your children?”

That hits him like a punch to the gut, like a sword to the chest. “I’m trying,” he says, and his voice feels dry as he speaks. He clears his throat. “I want to find them. I want to do better. They need to be taught how to keep themselves safe. They’re strong, both of them, but they’re still kids. If I’m not there to look after them, something could happen. They could die.”

The sound that escapes her is short, the pain of it strangled into a laugh. “They could. They very well could. You should have taught them better. You shouldn’t have left them.” And now her pain, for he can tell that it is pain, twists into anger. Her voice comes closer and he fumbles for the scalpel, but she’s already shoved him against the wall. He can feel her hand, warm through his clothing against the scar on his chest, but then she recoils with a shuddering gasp, her heart going wild.

“Are you all right?” he asks. He thought he was going through some things, but this woman clearly has issues.

“Where are your children?” she repeats, furious and implacable, and he doesn’t have any idea what he’s done to upset her so.

“I thought I might have found my boy, but he was too old,” he says, trying to find something to say to make her calmer. “And he couldn’t have been my boy. My children are warriors. He couldn’t end up as a lawyer.”

And now the woman goes completely still. She’s close enough that he can hear her breathing, which has gone ragged. “What do you mean, a lawyer?”

“That man this afternoon. He said I taught him when he was a kid, but I don’t see how. My boy’s still little.” He remembers, then, the boy saying he wanted to learn everything, to be like him. He remembers speed and grace and… no. That would be wasted in a courtroom. The man couldn’t have been his boy.

“What man?” she asks. She turns away from him, now; he can hear the whispering of her clothing and the clatter of her shoes as she crosses to the other side of the room.

“He was at the shelter.”

“He _wasn’t_.” Her voice has gone fierce and brittle, but it sounds like she’s facing away from him. She should know better than that, even though he probably looks like he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. “He’s dead. You must be seeing things, old man.”

“Well, no. I’m not seeing anything. I’m blind.”

“ _I know that_.” Her voice cracks, but it sounds like she’s facing him again. Good. “But that lawyer, whoever you met today, that wasn’t Matthew. Matthew’s dead. He died a year ago, and I thought you did, too. How is this my life that, of the two of you, _you_ are the one who came back, Stick?”

She sounds upset, and his instinct is to tell her to suck it up, but it sounds like she knows things, so he keeps his voice calm as he says, “Stick. That’s what the lawyer called me, but that’s not a name. It’s a dead tree.” He’s accepted the name – for now, at least – but he’s still not sure why someone would be called that.

She laughs but it sounds more uncanny than amused, too shrill. “It’s you. You’re Stick. And you’re here in this room where I killed you.”

It comes back in a flash: he’d held a katana to her throat but in the end, he hadn’t been able to kill her, and it had been his undoing.

“Ellie?”

And she does the one thing he would never have expected of his girl: she runs.

* * *

Elektra slowed to a walk once she had put some distance between herself and the warehouse, her breath catching, her throat tight.

She did not run, she told herself. It wasn’t an escape. Stick hadn’t been making sense; of course, she shouldn’t stay to listen to such nonsense.

Matthew, alive? Certainly, he wasn’t alive. Elektra would have been able to tell. She would have _known_. The old man was just confused, that was all. Coming back from the dead was difficult; Elektra of all people knew that.

She should have killed him, finished the job, but the thought of fighting him again in that room had overwhelmed her. Wasn’t it enough to have killed him once?

Her heart thudded in her chest as she remembered Stick’s smile as he talked about her. He’d _smiled_. It had been odd and wonderful and terrifying and…

Elektra remembered that day, the one he’d told her about, but not quite in the same way. She’d been grateful that – what had his name been? – she’d been glad that he hadn’t thrown her to the mat with as much force as the others. She’d already ached from the previous day’s work, and the day before that. But she’d seen the way Stick had shaken his head and she knew, she _knew_ he was disappointed in her. Again. Of course, she had to make that right. Stick had been her whole world, then; she’d lived for the merest scrap of praise from him, and just the thought of his displeasure was enough to make her push herself harder than was wise.

That was what she had done that day: demanded equal treatment in the hopes of pleasing Stick. He hadn’t smiled then, no, but at least he had stopped shaking his head. It had been worth it, Elektra had thought that evening, as she snuck out after lights out to get an ice pack.

She had been a child. She had thought that he cared about her then, but time and experience and most importantly distance from Stick had given her the perspective she needed. She had been a tool to him; that was all.

But his praise of her, his affection, his _smile_. Had she been wrong all this time?

Elektra came to a halt. It was too much, all of it. She wanted to go away, back to Greece, to an island, somewhere nobody could find her. But, no, that would be running, which Elektra didn’t do. She should go back, finish the job…

It was Stick’s voice in her head telling her to do these things. The irony did not escape her.

Her mind kept leaping from thought to thought: Stick, his place in her life, her childhood, Matthew.

 _Matthew_. What would Matthew do in this situation? Some ridiculous act of self-sacrifice, no doubt, though she felt affection for him as she decided that.

No, she knew what Matthew would do. It had never worked for her, but it was night now and it would be quiet, a place where she could think. She picked up her pace, glad to have a purpose, and soon reached her destination.

The front door had been locked and Elektra almost abandoned her dubious plan, but she thought of Matthew and tried the side door. It opened and Elektra slipped into the building. The smell of incense lingered there as well, but a different one from the kind in the safe house.

She hesitated. What was she supposed to do? There were candles, and she remembered Matthew talking about lighting them as symbols of prayers.

Elektra did not pray, but Matthew had. She moved forward, down the side of the sanctuary, keeping close to the wall. She would light a candle for Matthew, and she would sit in this place that could have been his, and when she was ready she would return to the warehouse and kill Stick. She would not think of his smile, of his words. She would finish the job.

She paused as she reached the candles. Was she, a nonbeliever, even allowed to do this? It wasn’t as if the candle knew. Still, she hesitated and then turned sharply at the sound of footsteps behind her. How had she not heard this person? Failure, again.

It was a woman, a nun from her outfit. “Did you need something?” she asked, and it sounded like she was trying to act pleasant and helpful when in fact she was perhaps a bit annoyed, or maybe tired.

Elektra could relate.

“Can I light a candle?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I’m not Catholic.” Well, or religious at all, really, but the nun didn’t need to know that.

“Go ahead. It’s not like all the candles will go out or anything.”

So Elektra bent down and lit a candle but now it was _odd_ , with the nun watching her. Still, she managed some thoughts of Matthew; she closed her eyes, remembering his smile, his humour, his strength.

When she opened her eyes, the nun had stepped away a bit, giving her at least the illusion of privacy, though she looked over when Elektra moved away from the candles. “So now my wish is granted?” She probably shouldn’t have been so flippant, but the nun didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s the idea, at least. Or, well, you get an answer. It’s not always the one you want.”

“What’s the point of asking, then? Isn’t your god supposed to be benevolent?”

The nun sighed and sat in a nearby pew. “Yes. He is.”

She seemed to be expecting more questions, so Elektra moved closer. “And all-powerful?”

“Yes.”

“And he knows everything, so he knows what you’re asking?”

“He does.” She looked like she knew where Elektra was going with this, and it was making her tired.

“So why?”

“Why what?”

“Why _anything?_ Why do bad things happen?” Well, no, Elektra had a specific question on this of all days. “Why do the wrong people die?”

“Who are we to know who the wrong people are?” the nun replied. She looked like she was checking herself from saying something, then added, “Did you lose someone?”

“Yes.” And found someone, but the wrong someone.

“I’m sorry. I’ve lost people, myself. I know that can be hard.”

It was, but Elektra wasn’t going to say that, either. “Why do we say that, _lose people_ , like it’s a sock missing from the laundry? I didn’t lose him; he was taken from me.”

The nun smiled at that, though it was a sad, bitter smile, one of such longing that Elektra wondered why in the world a nun would have such an expression on her face. “And you wonder, why would God do such a thing?”

Well, not really. Elektra knew who was to blame for Matthew’s death, and it certainly wasn’t some imaginary deity. Something about that must have come across on her face, for the nun shook her head. “Or maybe not. But you’re in a church, which suggests that maybe you’re looking for something.”

“A quiet place to sit,” Elektra replied, and the nun gestured to the pew next to her.

“That we have. I’m Maggie.”

“Ellie.” The word escaped Elektra before she had thought about it. She didn’t want to use her name, but maybe it was time to reclaim the nickname that Stick had given her. Stick, who had apparently cared for her. Stick, who had smiled when he thought of her. She shook her head as she sat: the same pew, but not too close to the nun.

“Your friend, the one you – who was taken from you, was he Catholic?”

Elektra nodded, smiling despite herself. “Very much so. His faith was the core of his life. If I’d asked him why bad things happen, he would have told me that there was a reason behind them."

"Not necessarily a good reason, though," Maggie observed, her tone dry. Elektra studied her, and she asked, "What, nuns can't have doubts?"

Elektra hadn't thought so. "Why join up, then, if you have doubts?"

"You've never done something you weren't sure about? And don't say _join up_. This isn't the Marines."

"Well, of course I have, but I'd want to be pretty sure about something like marrying god."

That made Maggie laugh, but there was an edge to the sound, something that made Elektra want to know the rest of the story.

"You weren't sure, were you?"

"No. I even left the church for a time, but, ah, circumstances sent me back."

“Circumstances?” Now Elektra _really_ wanted the story, but it looked like Maggie wasn’t talking.

She just shook her head and said, “I came back to the church, however it happened, but what brought you here? If you were really just looking for a quiet place to sit… well, the libraries are all closed at this hour, but there are other places.”

“I can leave.”

“I didn’t say that.” Maggie shook her head a little ruefully, adding, “You remind me of someone. He’s great at avoiding questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

“A useful skill to have.” Maggie displayed some rather excellent side-eye, and Elektra sighed, a little unwilling as she admitted, “I suppose I came here because I wanted to be close to my – friend.”

“Did he attend this church?”

Elektra glanced around the sanctuary. The candles flickered, casting shadows that suddenly felt ominous. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she shouldn’t have come. “He could have. It’s near where he lived. How many churches could there be in the area?”

“Sometimes it feels like just the one,” Maggie observed wryly. “Well, maybe I knew him. What was his name?”

Elektra shook her head. The sanctuary, despite being large, began to feel oppressive. She didn’t belong there. It was Matthew’s place, not hers; she could find nothing of him in that room, only the echoes of prayers that no one would answer. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

“You still remember him, though. As long as you do, there’s part of him that lives on.”

Elektra got to her feet, then looked down upon the nun. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do.”

Shaking her head, Elektra couldn’t help but sound bitter as she said, “I hope that’s a comfort to you.”

“It is. And I hope you find comfort as well.”

Elektra doubted she would, but she nodded. “Thank you,” she said, though grudgingly. “For the talk.”

Maggie just nodded, then made her way over to the candles. She lit one, and Elektra wondered for whom, but only briefly. She turned back as she reached the door and her last sight of the church was of the nun, her head bowed, the candlelight soft around her head.

Faith was all well and good, but Elektra had other things on her mind. She would, she resolved, return to the warehouse and kill Stick. What he had said that evening didn’t make up for everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done.

She would do it. Finish the job. Despite everything.

But when Elektra returned to the warehouse, he was gone.

* * *

Stick. It had been Stick, and while Matt had been expecting to see him it still felt like the ground had been ripped from under his feet. The voice, the heartbeat, the _everything_ had been Stick’s. But it couldn’t have been; Stick should have been dead and he never… he never…

Children. He’d mentioned children, his children; kids he had to teach and protect. He’d talked about a war. Sister Jane said Scott – they’d called him Scott at the shelter, for want of another name – had talked about a boy and a girl, about trying to find them. Matt didn’t want to think too much about who those children really were, but then again he couldn’t _not_ think about it. He _knew_ , and avoiding the truth was cowardice.

So, those were the facts: Stick was alive somehow, and he’d forgotten a lot but not the war he’d fought all his (first) life, and not two of his pupils. There must have been others all through his life; Matt didn't think he’d been in any way special, but… his indignation at the idea of Matt being a lawyer, yes. That rang true. Ideals, faith, and feelings: all things that Stick despised but that fueled Matt, gave him strength and purpose.

And now Stick was back, and Matt was lost. What should he do? Stick had walked away, and Matt hadn’t been able to follow, rooted to the spot as he’d been. After a while, Sister Jane’s voice had drifted back into focus, and he’d thanked her and left.

“I’ll find him,” he’d said, “I have an idea of where he’ll go.” It wasn’t entirely true, but not entirely wrong either. He was pretty sure he’d find him, somehow. Matt needed to regroup, plan, and above all not think about the little girl Stick had mentioned.

It was cold, and Matt decided a brisk walk would help him sort through his thoughts and focus. His cane swiping the ground in front of him, he walked on without really paying attention to where he was going. His feet, of course, led him to a bench in the park. From spring to fall an ice cream stand occupied the space opposite the bench, but from October to March there were hot drinks and sweets instead. He considered getting some hot cider for himself then decided against it. Even if it wasn’t the same season, even without the sun beating down on him, it still was the same stand, the same bench. He couldn’t.

Right as he was trying to decide whether to go left or right, a familiar voice made him smile.

“Holding up foot traffic, Mr. Murdock?”

“Brett,” he answered with a smile. “Come on, you haven’t been a traffic cop in years.”

“Yeah, thank God. Trying to make up your mind about some mulled wine?”

“Hot cider, but I’ll pass, I think.”

“Aw, it’ll warm you up; you look like you need it.”

Did he? Matt felt on edge, unsettled, but cold? Maybe. He didn’t really think about it. His stomach was tied up into knots, his thoughts kept running in circles, and he just… Something warm was shoved in his hand.

“Jesus, man, you really zoned out for a while there. There’s a bench right behind you, want to sit?”

No, he didn’t want to sit, especially not on that particular bench. But Matt still followed Brett, the cider he hadn’t wanted thawing his fingers. The wood was cold under his thighs, but getting off his feet felt good too. He rested his cane against the bench and checked the time: he’d been walking for much longer than he’d realized. “Thanks, Brett,” he said. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Look, since you’re here, I was meaning to look for you.”

Matt took a sip of his drink and made an enquiring noise.

“So, remember the story of the mysterious undead killer in the morgue?”

Oh, he did. “I remember, yeah.”

“Well, looks like there’s some folks looking for the guy, actually. Our Zombie John Doe was found in an apartment in Harlem and one of the building residents said a woman, an Ella, came to ask questions; then just yesterday another Ella bumped into me at Pedro’s and _also_ asked about a supposedly dead older, blind, one-handed guy. Makes you wonder, right?”

“Sure.” Ella, Ellie. She’d used both, but… No, it couldn’t be. No false hopes, no hope at all. She was dead. Plenty of women were called Ella. “Same woman?”

“Description is similar: Asian woman, long black hair, sounds British. She gave me a name for our John Doe: Tom Glenn. Not sure I buy it but still; she seemed to know the guy, at least.”

Tom Glenn. Fuck. That was one of Stick’s identities, Matt knew. The one he’d given to the Sisters at St Agnes, as he’d learned years later. The one Elek– the one Stick had traveled under when he was pretending to be a regular guy out and about.

“Matt, I think you also know more about this than you’re saying.”

“No.”

“We drank a lot the other evening but not so much I don’t remember the face you made. You know this guy too, and maybe the woman? What is it you know?”

“No.”

“Shit, hey, don’t – okay, let me…” Matt felt the warmth leave his hand and the cold freeze his insides. So cold. Too cold. “Hey, you’re shaking. Talk to me, Matt. Jesus, I’ve never seen… right, I’m calling Foggy, okay?”

“No.”

“Matt?”

“I’m fine, I just… I’m fine.”

“… yeah, right.” But Brett didn’t get his phone out. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

“She’s dead.”

“Who is? ‘She’? You know her too?”

“It’s not her.”

“Not who? Who is she not?”

Brett was interrogating him, Matt realized. And he knew better than to give him answers in the state he was in. “I do not have to tell you anything.”

“No, you don’t, but… wait, do you think this is me doing my job?”

“Aren’t you?”

Brett sighed. “I’m not going to arrest you, even if I should.” What? “I’m a cop but I’m not stupid, you know? Stuff added up, I can do the math. I know you don’t need that cane.”

“I do; I’m blind.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.” The warm styrofoam cup bumped into his fingers and Matt took it reflexively. “Have a sip but don’t drop it, okay? Damn, you’re still shaking.”

Matt held on to the cider, but didn’t drink any. He couldn’t; his throat felt all closed up. “You know?”

“I know who you are. How and why…”

“I hit you.”

“Given the state in which we find some of the people you leave for the NYPD, I’d say you didn’t hit me very hard.”

“Who else knows?”

“In the force? No one.”

“Oh.” Matt shook his head a little; it felt too full and heavy. “Why are you not arresting me?”

Brett bumped his shoulder. “Ma would never forgive me and I like her cooking, all right?”

Well, Bess _was_ a good cook. Matt held on to his cup with both hands and rested his forehead against it. The cup, at least, was solid in his grip. It wasn’t crumbling away into dust, it wasn’t… “Your not-dead man,” he said.

Brett waited. He hadn’t taken out his usual pen and pad.

“He was my, uh, my teacher. For… you know.”

“He some sort of ninja?”

“Yeah.” Matt took a deep breath, felt it fill his lungs then leave them, slowly. “He was hers, too.”

“The woman.”

“Yes.”

“You said she was dead, too.”

“She d…” He couldn’t say it. He had to. He couldn’t. “I was holding her, she was… she was…” Matt’s arms twitched; Brett took the cider away again and set it on the gravel under the bench. “Twice. They took everything from her, and then they revived her. She wasn’t herself; they used her, she didn’t know who she was, Brett. She _didn’t_. Not at first.” They’d fought. They’d fought, and then finally they’d kissed again. Her lips had still felt the same, in spite of everything. In spite of death. “We were deep under it when it collapsed. When I woke up… I thought I’d lost her again.” He probably wasn’t making any sense.

Brett was silent for a while. “Midland Circle,” he said at last. “I remember that shitshow.”

“I got out. I don’t know how. I think – sometimes I think I’m still there. That everything,” Matt said with a wide gesture, “is just in my head. That I’m dying there, and she’s with me. That we’re together.” And sometimes, that was what he wanted, too. Dying with her, rather than living here on his own.

“Are you sure it’s them? The old man and her?”

“Stick – that’s how we knew him; he was Stick to us – cut off his right hand to escape, not long before she…” Matt’s voice broke and he took a moment to center himself. “She killed him. Elektra. The woman you’re looking for, she killed him.”

Brett gave a low whistle. “While she wasn’t herself?”

Had she ever been herself? “She was someone else’s tool, someone else’s weapon for most of her life. Lives.”

“And she and you, you were… together?”

“I…” Matt bit his lip. He felt unsettled, unsteady. “I don’t know. When we first met…” But none of that was relevant for now, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to share it with Brett anyway.

“I’m pretty sure I’m missing a lot here, but I can tell you she looked pretty alive to me. If it helps.”

Did it? Matt couldn’t tell. Maybe? He wanted it to be true, and he was terrified at the same time. Terrified it wasn’t her, terrified it _was_ her but twisted into who she hadn’t wanted to be, terrified of his own hope. He wasn’t sure he could take it, if it turned out she wasn’t… he shook his head again. “Stick and Elektra… don’t engage them. They’re dangerous. Deadly. I think he’s confused; he doesn't remember who he is. I found him earlier today and he didn’t recognize me. He got away. I don’t think he’s going to randomly kill people, but he thinks he’s still fighting a war and if he feels threatened…”

“You mean, like a medical examiner about to cut his chest open.”

Well. “Yes.”

“Right. And what about the woman, Elektra? She’s looking for him, and you said she killed him.”

“I don’t know.”

“But she’s dangerous.”

“Very.” Matt felt his lips stretch a little. Oh – he was smiling. “She’s quick and precise, and nothing stops her when her mind is made up.”

“Okay, so we just have to figure out what… Matt?”

But Matt wasn’t listening to Brett anymore. Walking in their direction, cane tapping the ground rhythmically, someone was heading for them.

* * *

As he walks away from the warehouse, his thoughts are a mess. His children, he is looking for his children because of the war but he’s just met a man and a woman, not a boy and a girl. And yet, he’s pretty sure they are the kids he remembers. Except they’re not kids anymore. What happened? How many years has he lost? Why are their reactions so strange? He only wants to give them the tools they need to survive the war. There _is_ a war, right?

But he’s not sure anymore. Stick, the man called him. Matt. Matty. A damn lawyer, his boy? Didn’t he train them better than that? But maybe he didn’t. And then the little girl, Ellie; she isn’t so little anymore. She’s all grown up and she hates him, she _killed_ him. She said she killed him. He rubs the scar on his chest with his stump and winces.

What is he supposed to do? He’s got only one hand, and the two children he thought he had don’t need him any more. They don’t need a cripple to protect them. She hates his guts, and the boy – the man… well, he was upset, and Stick doesn’t know why.

His feet lead without him really paying attention to where they’re taking him, until Stick realizes he’s in a park. It’s winter, the air is cold and dry, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks.

Things become clearer and sharper in his mind, like great big blocks falling into place. He knocks a mental cane on the wall of his mind, and the echoes give him the shape of his memories.

The park was not far from an orphanage, and the boy… he’d never been his boy. Not really.

He taught him for less than a year, but the first time they’d met Stick had taken him here, to this place. It had been warmer than now; they’d had ice cream and he’d known right away the boy had so much potential but too strong emotions. Determined, yes; stubborn and hard-working. But there also was this great big hole in him, the still-fresh wound of his real father’s death and the unfairness of the world.

He’d tried to beat it out of him, but Matty… he’d clung to it. It gave him strength right as it was his biggest weakness, and he could remember now. He could remember keeping tabs on the boy as he grew up, hoping one day he’d be able to bring him into the fold properly. He’d kept up with the habit even after the fiasco with Ellie, the mission which didn’t turn Matty and almost made him lose his girl. She’d been so eager to please before then, such a dedicated student and then agent. After that mission Stick had lost a bit of her, the bit that had stayed with Matty. He’d broken his Ellie, his strong and driven Ellie who’d been such a perfect Chaste soldier until then. Even with the darkness she’d carried within her, she’d been his best student. But Matty, Matty could get under anyone’s skin.

He’d gotten under Stick’s skin too, the little bastard, and Stick had fled on the day the boy had made an overture that Stick knew he wouldn’t be able to resist for long. He’d taken the bracelet and abandoned the boy. It had been better for the kid, right? He wouldn’t have fit in with the Chaste, not then. And, as it turned out, not later either.

And now, the Chaste was no more. The Hand was no more. Everything was gone and all that was left, all that mattered now…

“Matty,” he said, both feet planted in front of the bench. “And another guy.”

“Stick.”

Other Guy kept quiet. Good. _He_ didn’t matter.

“I met Ellie.”

Matty’s breath caught, but then he exhaled slowly. “Sounds like everybody’s met her but me.”

“She thinks you’re dead.”

“I thought _you_ were dead.”

“I got better.” He put more weight on his cane and leaned forward a little.

“You said… when she came back. You said it wasn’t her, not really.”

Stick shrugged. “You think I’m not myself?”

“Are you?”

“You tell me, Matty.”

“It was her, in the end. Really her.”

“What end? She’s alive. Doesn’t feel like an end, does it?”

Matty was quiet for a moment, and Stick waited. He could feel a question coming. “Were you faking it? The amnesia, was it real? Do you remember now? You were dead. Why are _you_ alive now?” Questions, plural. Of course.

“I don’t know, kid. Woke up on a metal table with a guy trying to stab me, and I escaped. As for the rest… It’s coming back, now.” Stick knocked the end of his cane on Matty’s shin. “A lawyer? Did I ever tell you to become a lawyer?” He spat on the ground.

“I’ve always been a disappointment, for you. You should be happy I’m proving you right.”

“You’re not a disappointment,” Other Guy said. “Went to Columbia and everything, summa cum laude… and you’ve put behind bars people who deserved it. Don’t listen to him.”

Who’d asked him for his opinion? Not Stick, that was for sure. “Matty’s not making enough money for it to be useful, which would have been the only reason to be a lawyer.” Stick pursed his lips. The sound of the cane against Matty’s pants… cheap suit. “Bleedin’ heart.”

“At least he’s not a murderer,” Other Guy said. “You are. You killed the medical examiner in the morgue, and yesterday we found a corpse in an alley not too far from here, stabbed to death. He had one of those weird tats on the scalp, the kind that’s turned up for a while here and there. I’m perfectly willing to pin this on you, too.”

“You’d arrest a one-handed, old, blind man with a shaky memory?” Stick tsked. “Lucky I know a lawyer who went to fucking Columbia. Cops these days, am I right?”

“We have DNA from the crime scenes; it’ll be easy to check.” Other Guy was pissed. Good for him. Stick didn’t give a fuck.

“Don’t,” Matty said. “Both of you, just – don’t.”

“I’m taking him into custody.”

“Brett, no. He’ll just escape.”

Stick smiled. Yup, he would.

“You got a better idea?” But then Other Guy stood up and bent forward a little. “Hey, _you_ also have a scalp tattoo. Not the hand-shaped one like our latest body, but the weird squiggly line one.”

Stick felt his eyebrows rise a little. The Hand tattoo? “Found a lot of them?”

“All over the place, yeah; although that one was the first in New York. Stabbed right through the heart, from the front and back at the same time. Like most others.”

“Not me. I’d have needed two hands for that,” Stick said, holding out his stump. “Kinda hard at the moment.” But he knew who it was, and from the way Matty’s heartbeat sped up a little, so did he.

“She’s going after what’s left of the Hand and Chaste,” Matty said.

“No shit.”

“What? Who?”

“People who used her,” Matty replied. “People like _him_.”

“I never forced her.”

“You recruited children for your war. Orphans.”

Jeez, he’d never get over it. “Grow up, Matty. You can’t always be whining about what life dealt you.”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re…”

“Oh, shut up. You never talk about anything else. You,” Stick said as he lifted a finger from his cane and pointed it at Other Guy, “make a list of those people you found, the ones with tattoos.”

“I can’t believe it. Matt, this guy is a joke; who does he think he is?”

“An asshole. Stick’s always been an asshole.”

“Sure am, and don’t you forget it. The people she’s after, they’re not part of your nice, soft, sheltered world. There are those who wanted to control it, and us who fought them. There shouldn't be that many left and all of them nobodies, but it’s my job to be sure of it.”

“Excuse me, my world? Your job? What is he talking about?”

“He’s – Brett, as much as I hate to say it…” Matty sighed. “He’s right.”

“Like hell. There are no secret organizations, that’s conspiracy nut talk. Never thought you’d be one of them.”

“Know Danny Rand?”

“Rich skinny white guy, mysteriously back from wherever a year or two ago?” Other Guy didn’t think much of the Iron Fist, sounded like. Stick couldn’t blame him.

“Yes.”

“Talk to him; tell him I’m sending you. He and Colleen will catch you up.”

“Wait.” Stick frowned. “Little dumb punk still around?” So he hadn’t been killed after all. Some things were still unclear in his mind, and he was starting to realize how much he didn’t know. After he’d (not quite) died the Hand had been defeated, but what else had happened? He needed answers. Why was Ellie going after what was left of them, Hand and Chaste: duty or revenge? Where were her allegiances? “Rand’s an idiot. I’ll find Ellie, ask her why she wants me dead.” Matty wouldn't have the guts to go after her and kill her if she’d truly lost it, but Stick would. He’d hesitated once before, but not this time. She wouldn't kill him twice.

“No, you’re just going to fight and…”

“Shut up, Matty. _You’re_ just going to run at the mouth about redemption and more useless shit. That’s not what we need if the war’s not over. You go do whatever it is you do in your pretend lawyer life, yeah?”

“Look, I’ve had enough; _you’re_ coming with me to the precinct.”

“Ha. He’s funny. You got funny friends, Matty.” Stick turned around and left them there, Other Guy probably talking about his stupid, pointless job and Matty actually putting his fancy degree to use. Something about not going after him right away, something helpful, for once.

At least that’s what Stick imagined; he didn’t really care. His focus was ahead of him, not behind him. Not on the past.

Stick had a job to do, the one he’d dedicated his life to. He’d find Ellie, see where her true allegiances now were, and kill her if she was still Hand. No hesitation, no sentimentality.

There was a war to fight, there always was. Nothing else mattered.

* * *

Matt listened to Stick’s footsteps and his cane, getting further and further away from the bench. He wasn’t hurrying and he was sure of himself, implacable, as always. His mission first, and the rest… it didn’t matter. Should Matt go after him, stop him? Stick was going after a ghost, except she wasn’t a ghost. Matt had to face the facts: she _wasn’t_. She was alive, somehow. But _who_ was she, now? The first Elektra he’d known had been a lie, sent to seduce him. It had worked. Then she’d come back, and then… then…

Matt shook his head. He felt Brett’s hand on his shoulder, heard him ask if he was okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He felt for his own cane and wrapped both hands around the handle. “You’re not arresting him?”

“Something tells me I won’t get much from him, and that I probably won’t even find him in any database. Dude doesn’t officially exist, right?”

“No, probably not.”

Brett kept quiet for a while. “So this guy was your teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“Asshole.” Brett didn’t say who he meant; Matt or Stick. Probably both; he’d be right.

“I appreciate it.”

“Hm?”

“That you’re listening and not…”

“I should, you know. I should arrest you both. I get that I’m out of my depth here, but it really sounds insane. I don’t like it one bit, Matt.” Brett picked up the cider from the ground. “It’s cold now. Want another one?”

“No, thanks.”

Brett tossed it in the trash can before sitting back next to him. “It’s fucked up, man.”

“The cider?”

There was a pause then Brett said, “I’m rolling my eyes. Maybe you already know that, actually. Do you?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“Right. Foggy knows?”

“Yeah. He didn’t take it well, at first.”

“I’ll bet.” A sigh. “What a fucking mess. What can you tell me? What should I know?”

Matt thought for a moment; he didn’t even know where to start. “I’m not sure. But if there are some Hand left… they’re deadly.”

“Hey, I’m a cop; I’ve sworn an oath.” Brett’s palms made a dry sound when he rubbed them on his thighs. “Right. Matt, you look… you don’t look so good. Want me to drive you somewhere? Home, maybe?”

“No, I’ll just… I’ll have a walk, clear my mind. And then I’ll have to find them.”

“The old man and this Ella?”

“Elektra, yes.” Whoever she was now.

“So, she your ex?”

Sort of. “It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is. Look, I’ll just look up those tats, see what I can find; I’ll give you a call, okay?”

“Yeah, good; that’s good.”

“And then you’ll have to tell me what it all means. I don’t understand anything except there could be innocent people at risk and that’s why I took the badge, you know? To protect people. I need to know what the NYPD is up against.”

“Not the NYPD, Brett. Please don’t tell anyone, it would only put you in more danger. If the Hand is still active… you don’t know who’s one of them.”

“Trust no one? Come on, Matt; I trust you against my better judgment already.”

“Trust Danny Rand, trust Jessica Jones. Luke Cage. Colleen Wing. They know what we’re up against… if the Hand is really back.”

As for Matt, he desperately needed to regroup. Meeting Stick twice, with and without his memories; sharing some of that with Brett; learning that Elektra… that she was… but he didn’t want to have the world crumble away from under his feet again if it wasn’t really her, if they’d cloned her or if they’d wiped her mind or if… the Hand could have done anything – _anything_ – to her, if they’d dug her out from under the Midland Circle rubble. No, he didn’t want to think about it. Not until he’d heard her, felt her, touched her. Then, he’d know. He just had to be ready for that.

* * *

It was not dark yet outside, but the church was already as quiet as it could be during the night. The children were all warm and fed inside, her fellow Sisters were busy helping them with homework or doing laundry or reading, and Maggie… Maggie was praying.

She’d sent Matthew to the shelter and from what Sister Jane said, the amnesiac old man _was_ Tom Glenn, or whatever his name really was. The meeting hadn’t gone too well, according to Sister Jane, and Maggie hoped her… she hoped Matthew wouldn’t act too rashly, that he’d take the time to think before making any sort of decisions. She prayed he would, at least.

But she knew him too well to trust he would; she’d watched him grow up. She knew his parents’ faults. He was, well. He came by his flaws honestly. His qualities, too. She saw so much of Jack in him sometimes, it was like a hand was squeezing her throat. She’d made the right choice then, and she would tell herself she had again and again until the bitterness in her mouth went away. Maybe one day she’d believe it. She wondered if Matthew had forgiven her, if he ever would. He said it was the past, that he didn't want to dwell on it; she knew better. He’d never said what she needed and didn’t deserve to hear.

The side door of the church creaked, and he was coming in.

“You’re looking surprisingly unhurt,” she said. “What brings you here in this disturbingly bruise-free state?”

“Hey.” But he smiled a little. He liked her teasing. “Just needed a quiet place to think.”

“Want me to leave?”

“No. Stay, please.”

“Must be something in the air here. A woman came in earlier with the same needs. Never seen her before.”

“Did she find what she was looking for?”

“I’m not sure she knew _what_ she was looking for. She lost someone she loved, and he was apparently Catholic.”

“Maybe she’ll come back.”

“I doubt it; she wasn’t even from here. Sounded British.”

Matthew sat a bit too quickly. “British?”

“Yes, British. What?”

“Did she give you a name?”

“Ellie. She asked if she could light a candle; we talked a bit. She was a little bit lost, a little bit on edge.” She’d reminded Maggie of him.

Matthew sat up and the rigid line of his back, the tight clench of his fingers around his cane made her frown. “A candle? _Ellie_?”

“Yes.”

“Did she – did she threaten you?” He stood up, made for the candle tray closest to him. “What candle, do you remember?”

“First row, third from the right.” Matthew’s fingers ran along the tray and stopped in front of the candle. “Yes, that one.”

He hesitated for a while then finally touched it, with a gentleness she’d rarely seen in him. He could be, she knew, but he tended to take on the world fists up rather than open-handed. It hadn’t always been kind to him, and he’d learned to fight even before the old man came along. She tried not to dwell too much on her responsibility in that.

“I can’t tell,” he said. “I can’t tell if it was her or not. But it has to be.”

“Her?”

“Elektra.”

She remembered the name from his desperate ramblings, back when he’d been so broken. He’d called out for that woman, again and again.

“Why do you think she would threaten me?” He shook his head. “Do you want to talk about her?”

“No.”

Oh no, of course not. He was stubborn like his father, sometimes. Like herself too, whether she liked to admit it or not. “I think she was talking about you.” Matthew tilted her head in her direction, so she elaborated. “The Catholic friend who’d died.”

“I’m not dead.”

“You thought she was. Wouldn't be surprising if she thought you were, too.”

He frowned. “It’s a miracle I survived. Two miracles?”

“Why not?”

His frown deepened. “It can’t be her. Not _really_.”

“Not _really_ her? What does that even mean?”

“I just… She died and they revived her but they’d taken something from her; what if they did it again? What if this time she can’t get back what they took? What if…”

“Stop it.” He pursed his lips, looking as mulish as he had as a sullen teenager she’d just chastised. God save them both, Matthew could be trying sometimes. “You’re not making much sense. Of the people who died and came back to life, how many did so? Who gave them life again, Matthew?”

“I’m not talking about metaphors or matters of faith; I’m talking of centuries-old organizations who managed to find a way to bring back their followers from the dead so they could use them for their benefit. They got their hands on her once before, Maggie, what if…”

“She seemed like a perfectly lucid, self-possessed young woman to me. As far as I know you didn’t crawl out of Jesus’s tomb, right?”

“I don’t even know how I got out.”

“Yes, well; if you did, why not her?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t. We can’t know everything, Matthew. As you’re well aware.” That was faith, after all. “What if we went there?”

“What?”

“What if we went to that place? The cleanup is still ongoing, I think.”

“It never really started; they’ve left it as is.”

“Maybe it would help, going there.”

She could see how unconvinced he was, but he nodded. Matthew wasn’t the kind to stay quiet; he needed to move, to act. It would be something to do, some place to visit. A goal of sorts, perhaps.

* * *

Elektra turned to survey the warehouse.

She shouldn't have left. She had left, and now Stick was gone. Another failure.

The echoing, empty space was certainly not what had eased the tension between her shoulder blades or calmed her breathing. She told herself that it wasn't relief that she felt.

She would find Stick. She would find him, and this time he wouldn't smile, he wouldn't look at her and say _Ellie_ in that soft voice, and she would be able to kill him. Again.

Elektra checked her weapons: the sai, the daggers, the garotte. Yes. All in their places and ready to be used. She thought of getting her katana, for the poetry of it, but she didn't want to go all the way back to her flat.

And, truth be told, she didn't want the distance of a longer blade. When she killed Stick this time, she wanted to be close, to feel the life leave his body, to be certain she'd finished the job.

She _would_ finish it this time. If Stick remained alive, he could rally what was left of the Chaste. And then someone would step in to fill the void left in the Hand leadership, and then one or the other of them would want Elektra to join them.

No. No more.

She would find Stick, and she would kill him, and this time she would make sure it was permanent.

That was the idea, at least, but hours later Elektra had made no headway in finding Stick. While she had been able to track him for some distance, she lost his trail right around the time the clouds began to darken. Thinking she had some time before the storm broke, she bought some mulled wine from a nearby stall and eased to a seat on a bench. She leaned back, ignoring the chill seeping through her clothing as she wrapped her hands around the cup.

Elektra let the noise of the city wash over her as she tried to decide what to do next. After so many years as a tool of one organization or the other, it still felt odd to have the freedom to choose.

She finally admitted to herself that she really had no idea where to find Stick. She could wait around New York, make herself a target. If he wanted her, he would find her.

The truth of it was that she wasn't sure which option she would prefer. If Stick didn't find her, that would imply that he had discarded her, had again found her lacking. That he didn't want her. The thought twisted her insides.

But if he came after her, he would just use her again, despite his smile in the warehouse or maybe because of it. In that moment when he’d smiled, she had thought he had meant it, but now she wasn’t sure.

She would have to kill him. It was the only way to be free.

She had to know. She could spare a few days in New York before she returned to her pursuit of the remaining members of the Hand and the Chaste.

She could stand being in this city, empty as it was of Matthew's presence, though his absence left a hollow in her chest, an ache below her ribs. It seemed as if his ghost was everywhere. Even on this wooden bench, she felt like she could sense him, ridiculous as that was.

Elektra sipped the wine and then grimaced at the taste. Of course, they had used too much sugar; it was cloyingly sweet. Maybe it was an American thing. She dropped it in a nearby bin, where the wine mingled with a cup of cider that must have been discarded earlier.

There was one other place that Stick might think to look for her, though if he truly knew her he would know that it was the last place she would want to be. But because Stick might be there, she had to go, even though the thought filled her with dread.

Elektra took a deep breath, got to her feet, and turned toward Midland Circle. She hadn't been back since the day she woke there alone: the day Matthew had died. There was nothing there for her, but she still had to go.

She thought about calling for a car, then discarded the idea. It would be faster to walk. Well, no, it would be faster to take the subway, but Elektra told herself that the fresh air would do her good. It was not at all that she shied away from the thought of the weight of the city looming over her as she sat trapped in a tube, just –

No. She walked, and she ignored the gathering storm. And if her footsteps lagged as she approached the wreckage that had been Midland Circle, she told herself that it was the aftereffects of traveling, of her long day of searching. It certainly wasn't reluctance to see the spot where Matthew had died.

Someone had blocked off the building, had put up walls to keep out the curious, and Elektra tried not to feel relief. There were ways to get in, she knew: over the fence or there, where the links had been broken.

Somewhere inside the wreckage was what remained of Matthew. Elektra had searched it, half-dead herself, first in the hopes of finding Matthew alive and then in terror of the Hand doing to him what had been done to her. In the end, even though it had destroyed her, she had hoped he was dead. She had known she would never be able to face Matthew if the Hand had twisted him into their creature.

No. Death was better. Elektra knew that. And if she had found that the Hand had got to Matthew, had turned him, she would have been merciful and killed him.

Elektra approached the fence, her steps dragging.

He was not inside. She knew that. Even if his body remained, somehow overlooked in her frantic searching, the spark that had made it _Matthew_ was gone: into the ether or to his heaven. Despite his nickname and the things that he had done that he would have called sins, Elektra knew that if there was a hell, Matthew certainly wasn't there.

She finally reached the fence. As she stretched out her hand to touch it, the skies opened.

* * *

Maggie had not counted on the weather. In her haste to get Matthew to visit Midland Circle – a goal that, while not necessarily productive, at least wasn't actively self-destructive – she had left without anything warmer than her sweater. The chill seeped into her bones, increasing the ache that had plagued her joints all day. She didn't have to look at the sky to know that a storm was coming. It was cold, but not cold enough for the snow they'd had only days before, and Maggie shook her head at the vagaries of New York weather. 

Matthew remained monosyllabic throughout the walk, stubbornly resisting her efforts to draw him out regarding this young woman.

"When did you meet her?"

"Law school."

"Was she a law student, too?"

"No." That, at least, drew a scoffing sound from him, as if the mere thought of this Elektra studying law was a ridiculous one. Well, it was a response.

Maggie told herself that Matthew was clearly going through something and strove for patience. Wind gusted and she shivered, and Matthew came to a halt.

“Here,” he said while he pulled off his jacket, fumbling his cane from one hand to the other as he dealt with his sleeves. “You’re cold.”

Well, she was. “But I have my sweater. I’m fine.”

His eyebrows twitched over the tops of his glasses, and he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I see what you mean about it being annoying when people say that. Just take the jacket, okay? I’m not cold.”

“Lying is a sin,” Maggie murmured, though she reached for the jacket. Matthew made a face that looked impatient and dropped his cane, then held the jacket for her, wrapping it close around her after she’d shrugged it on. “Thank you,” she said, then, and was glad to see him smile. She was grateful for the warmth of the jacket; Jack had done the same thing, she remembered suddenly, one chilly evening back when their relationship was new. He'd pulled his jacket around her and hugged her close – for warmth, he'd said, since she had his jacket.

How had they ever been so young?

“How… how did she look?” Matthew asked, his voice hesitant.

“Tired, and as if she was under some strain.” She didn’t like the way his mouth turned down at that, so added, “She’s beautiful, Matthew.” She had been, despite looking tired; her dark clothing had been simple but elegant, the red of her lips and nails a bold contrast.

That made him smile. “She is. Was. I don’t know. I just don’t understand how it could be her.”

Maggie shook her head. “I can’t explain it. But she was there, and she seemed content.” Just when she'd lit the candle, though she decided not to tell Matthew that Elektra's moment of peace had been so brief.

From his expression, he knew anyway. “Elektra, in a church,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“Yes, well. Can we walk while you think about that? We’re almost there, and if we hurry we can get back before the rain hits.” She leaned down to pick up his cane, though he didn't take it when she offered it.

Thunder rumbled just as she finished speaking, and then the rain came, enough that Maggie was grateful for Matthew’s jacket.

“Let’s go back,” he said. He wasn’t shivering, but the rain plastered his shirt to his body, and Maggie almost said yes; she worried, though, about what else he would use to distract himself.

“We’re nearly there,” she said. “And we can’t get more wet.”

The rain picked up, and Matthew tipped his head up to the sky. “That wasn’t a challenge. She wasn’t _asking_ for more rain.” Still, he headed off toward Midland Circle, and Maggie hurried to fall into step with him. They both walked more quickly and stayed under awnings where they could, and soon enough they reached their destination.

Matthew came to a halt and lifted a hand, blocking Maggie from moving forward. “What –?” she began, but then she saw what he must have somehow sensed: the woman, Elektra, stood gripping the fence surrounding the ruin of Midland Circle. “Matthew –”

He hauled her bodily into an alcove, out of the worst of the rain but still within sight of the woman. “Stay here.”

“But –”

He gripped her shoulders. “No matter what, stay here. I don’t want to have to worry about –” His voice cracked, and he shook his head. “Please.”

Maggie made a noise that could have been assent and watched as Matthew made his way toward the woman. The rain had slackened, and she could hear the splash of his feet through the puddles.

So, apparently, could the woman. Elektra. She turned sharply, one hand slipping into a pocket, the other still gripping the fence.

“Elektra.”

Maggie didn’t have words for the emotion that filled Matthew’s voice, but it made her throat tighten. She couldn't see him, as his back was to her, but she noticed the way Elektra’s breath caught, the way she backed up a step and then looked hard at Matthew. "You're dead."

Some of the tension in Matthew's shoulders eased. He did not move closer to Elektra; he lifted his hands, perhaps to show that they were empty, and said, "I'm not."

"I looked for you." But just then she wasn't looking anywhere but at Matthew. "In the wreckage, in the city. Hospitals. Morgues. You weren't there."

"No. Someone found me, took me somewhere safe where I could recover."

She moved back another step, though it did not seem like a retreat. " _Who?_ "

"Not… not who you think, okay? A cab driver found me, got me to St. Agnes."

"A church," Elektra replied, and her gaze flicked to Maggie before turning unerringly back to Matthew.

"Orphanage," he corrected softly, and Elektra waved away the distinction. "Elektra, how did you… what happened?"

She didn't look away from him, though her hair fell forward, clinging damply to the side of her face. "The building collapsed. When I woke, you were gone." And now she did move forward, her speed and strength as she grabbed Matthew and pressed him against the fence startling Maggie into stepping forward. She could see Matthew now, though; he looked unworried, his lips even curving briefly, though he sobered when Elektra spoke again. "You shouldn't have stayed. You should have gone up with the others."

"I couldn't have left you there to die alone."

Maggie eased back into her alcove, privately reflecting that they were both pretty chatty for dead people, but she let them have their moment. Hopefully, it would help Matthew work through his issue – this particular issue, at least – and after that? She couldn't begin to guess.

"You should have," Elektra repeated, her voice fierce. "But we never should have been in that situation. You should have killed me when you saw what they did to me."

"What? No. Elektra, I couldn't have. I knew you were still in there."

"Yes, yes, redemption." Elektra scoffed. "But I didn't want to live like that, Matthew. At least Stick tried to kill me, even though he couldn't manage it. Stick," she added, a note of urgency to her tone. "He's here in New York, alive, but… changed."

"He had amnesia, but I think he remembers now, at least some things. And I'm glad he didn't kill you."

"One of you should have," Elektra retorted. "Even when it seemed like I didn't, I couldn't control anything about myself, part of me knew what I was doing." A shudder wracked her body, and Maggie wondered if all the moisture on her cheeks was from the rain. Matthew reached for Elektra, his movements slow and careful as his hand came to curve against her cheek.

Elektra leaned into his touch for a moment, listening as Matthew assured her, "Then you _were_ still in there."

She recoiled, reaching to grab Matthew's hand to try and do… something to his wrist, Maggie wasn't sure what, but it looked painful. Matthew twisted out of her grasp, his hands coming up; all gentleness had vanished, and a white, wide grin crossed his face.

He looked so much like Jack the first night she'd seen him fighting at Fogwell's that watching him broke Maggie's heart a little bit. He was so strong and confident and… all right, doing his best to hit a woman, which Jack never would have done, but Elektra looked as if she was giving as good as she got.

They were both smiling now, though neither of them seemed to be pulling their blows, and Maggie winced a little at the sound of flesh on flesh. Matthew's shirt had somehow gotten torn, and now hung open in the front.

Shaking her head, she stepped out of her alcove and made her way closer to the two of them. "All right, that's enough."

They didn't seem to hear her; now it was Elektra's turn to be slammed against the fence, and she made a noise that Maggie told herself was one of pain.

There were some aspects of Matthew's life that she really didn't need to know about.

She cleared her throat. "Matthew Michael Murdock."

His head whipped in her direction, though he stepped back when Elektra tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction to land another blow.

"That's enough, both of you. It's cold, and we're all soaked to the skin, and while it's an old wives' tale that we'll catch cold from it, that doesn't make it any more pleasant."

Neither of them said anything for a moment or two; the sounds of their ragged breathing seemed loud in the absence of fighting noises.

"Matthew," Elektra said, her tone light and elegant. "Why did you bring a nun? Not that I object to nuns, in general, but it does seem to be an unusual choice, even for you. Maggie, yes?" she added, as if she hadn't been pummeling Matthew moments before. "From that church."

"From that church," Maggie agreed, leaving it to Matthew to explain as much as he wanted.

He shifted in place, tugging absently at the ruin of his shirt. Maggie took off his jacket and pressed it into his hands; he seemed more comfortable after he'd put it on.

"Maggie thought it might help to come back here. People had mentioned you, and I worried… well, apparently for nothing. Maggie's my mother," he added, looking like he was trying hard to be casual about it.

Maggie, for all that she missed his coat, was warmed by his words: the first time he'd introduced her to anyone as his mother.

Elektra looked her up and down, her elegant eyebrows lifting. "You're that little nun in the white veil from that picture at Fogwell's. I always thought it appropriate that Matthew's father had a nun in his corner."

Maggie couldn't reply at first, her thoughts going from, _The picture is still there?_ to, _Matthew took her to Fogwell's?_ to a surge of vanity, quickly suppressed, that she was still recognizable as the girl in the picture. "I am," she replied. She thought she had kept her tone even, but the quick, wary look that Matthew sent her made her suspect that she hadn't been as smooth as she could have wished.

"And Matthew's father is the person who was taken from you," Elektra concluded.

Maggie didn't want to talk about Jack. Not with Matthew's resemblance to him still fresh in her mind. "Is there anything else either of you needs to do here?" she asked, not bothering to keep the tartness from her voice. "Maybe a few more kicks? Or maybe you should work on that right hook, Matthew. She clearly saw it coming a mile away."

The two of them turned toward each other and Maggie swore they were considering taking up the fight once more. Matthew met that challenging gleam in Elektra's eyes with another of those fierce grins, and Maggie wondered (but not too much) about their relationship, that this was the thing that seemed to make him happy.

"It's cold," she prompted, her tone pointed. "If you two would like to stay here and do –" Her mind twitched away from that; Matthew was an adult, but part of her still thought of him as that tiny baby or that furious ten-year-old. Anything but the grown man he had become. "I'm going back to St. Agnes."

"We'll walk you back," Matthew said promptly. "But, ah…" His attention shifted to Elektra.

"Not in a church, certainly," she observed. "Or, yes, an orphanage. Perhaps back to mine. Though yours is closer."

Matthew nodded and gestured for Maggie to lead the way.

They did not hold hands all the way back to St. Agnes, didn't touch at all, but the connection between them was nearly palpable.

Maggie didn't know whether to be happy for Matthew or to worry for him. Probably both.

* * *

“Your mother,” Elektra said as they walked away from St. Agnes. Those were the first words she was saying to _him_ , since they’d left Midland Circle together. Yes, _together_ , this time. Matt tried to focus on that, and not her strange quiet.

“Yes.”

She reverted to silence.

“Are you – what happened? Afterward.”

“I told you.” She sighed. “I searched for you.”

“I meant after that.”

“Oh.” Elektra shrugged. “I… regrouped. And then, I went on a hunt. I couldn’t… Matthew.” She stopped, and he stopped with her; he felt her biceps tense against his hand. “Matthew, I thought you were – I mourned you.”

Rain kept pouring all around them, sliding down the umbrella Maggie had loaned them. Not that they weren’t soaked already, but Elektra had politely declined Maggie’s offer of a towel.

“Take this, at least.” Maggie had pressed the wooden handle into Matt’s grip. “You’ll bring it back when you come to mass.” She hadn’t taken _No_ for an answer.

The rain never stopped. Matt felt cold; his shirt was torn and his jacket heavy with water. He thought he could still smell Maggie’s familiar incense-and-detergent scent lingering on the fabric, but it was probably more wishful thinking than anything else.

He had a mother; Elektra was alive. Stick was back. It was too much.

“Matthew?”

“Yeah, I’m – I’m here.”

“Maybe we should have lit a candle for your god, after all.” He made an enquiring noise. “We’re both here. We’re both alive. Isn’t it a way to show your thanks?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Elektra’s hand wrapped around his. “Squeeze any harder, and you’re going to break the umbrella. Let’s get to your apartment, Matthew; you look like a mess.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Trust me.” She stepped closer to him, trapping the folded cane dangling from his wrist between them. “We need to talk.”

“Stick?”

“Stick,” she agreed. He wished they could talk about something else, or even better not talk at all. He wanted to hold her, touch her, feel her; he wanted to learn her all over again, make sure she was truly herself and lose himself in the sound of her heartbeat, the smell of her hair. “Among other things,” she added.

Oh.

“The mission, first. And then…”

The mission. Was Stick a _mission_? She still spoke like she used to, when she was Stick’s best weapon. But Matt knew she wasn’t, knew she was right. They had to figure out what to do with Stick.

“I was your mission, once,” Matt said.

“But now,” she replied, “you’re not. Come, Matthew.”

So he followed.

When they got to his apartment, Elektra started taking off her clothes right away.

“Don't just stand there; we’re not having a shower with those on.”

A shower? Well, it would warm them up. But a shower together?

“Then we’ll order some food in, and make some plans.”

“Elektra.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a tattoo?”

She paused in her fight to remove her wet jeans. “Where did you hear about that?” There was a squelching noise, and a splat. She was naked.

“Brett, an officer friend, told me about corpses found all over the place, some with a hand tattoo and some with another design. Stick has one, too.” He paused. “You killed them, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have one?”

She took his hand and put it on her head, guided his fingertips to where her hair was thickest, right where the back of her skull curved back into the neck. He felt for something and finally found it: a different texture, something about half a square inch etched into her scalp.

“I was ten.”

He had to tug a little to free his hand from her hair. She’d been ten, and already training for a war. “You never asked for it.”

“Oh, I did; I wanted it. I was so proud when Stick told me I was _worthy_.” Her voice was full of scorn; whether it was for Stick or her younger self, it was hard to say. “I had achieved something. You were lucky that you failed his tests, Matthew, because success was even worse.”

“It’s over, now.”

“It is.”

She twined their fingers together and led him to the shower; the water was hot enough to make them forget the earlier rain. Matt touched her skin, found her scars; some were familiar and some were new. Her entire body was both familiar and new, her skin, the shape of her jaw, the give of her breasts; he followed the muscles down her back and smiled at her short nails digging into his shoulders.

“I hated you,” she whispered. “When I realized how free you were, I hated you.”

“Elektra…”

“I hated you, I hated that I loved you; you made me feel too much and I wanted to make you pay for it.” Her breaths were quicker.

“I’ve loved you from day one.”

“I know.”

“And still when you came back.”

“Yes.”

“Even if you have blood on your hands, even if…”

She didn’t let him finish; her hand twisted a little harder and words died in his throat.

Elektra was at home in his apartment; he heard her dig into his closet for clothes and put hers in the washer, then find his tea and mugs like she’d lived there for days. Months. Years. The idea was appealing to him, but it probably wasn’t to her. She wasn’t the sort to settle down, however much he could dream about it.

“I’ve ordered food and wine for us.” She sat next to him on the couch. “What is it?”

“Stick.”

“Ah.”

“You want to kill him.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. “It didn’t take the first time.”

“What is it about, Elektra? Revenge? What’s the goal?”

“Don’t tell me you want him to live. He’s not going to change; he’s a manipulative bastard and he’ll always be.”

“But what does he want?”

“Finish his war, I assume. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered to him, after all. When he kept talking about his children, he said they were warriors. That they had to be warriors.”

“Us,” Matt said quietly. “He was talking about us.”

“He’s taught many.”

“But he was talking – he remembered us, when he didn’t remember anything else. Not the others.”

“Or he was faking it.”

“He wasn’t.”

“How would you know? He’s devious. Believe me, I’ve known him for decades. Don’t trust him.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.” She sighed. “He’ll never die of old age, sitting in a rocking chair, at peace with the world. That’s not his style.”

“So you’ll kill him, out of… pity? Respect?”

“No!” She pushed her sleeves up again; they kept sliding down. She’d put on one of his sweatshirts and it was, of course, too big for her; his pants were so large for her frame she’d used a safety pin from his first aid kit to tighten it. All Matt wanted to do was to forget about Stick and hold her, but Stick stood between them, again. Still.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was bitter; she’d always hated admitting she didn’t know something.

“His war. Against the Hand, right?”

“Yes.”

“And yours is against the Hand _and_ the Chaste.”

“Don’t lecture me.”

“I’m not.” He didn’t like it, of course, but could he find it in him to cast stones at her? And what did it say about him, about his faith, that he was… okay, with her actions? “But Stick…”

“You’re conflicted. You want him to live.”

He owed Stick. He hated him, but he owed him. Without his teachings he wouldn't be Daredevil, and he wouldn't even have survived childhood, at least not with his sanity intact. He wouldn't be as functional as he was, at any rate. “What’s left of the Hand, now?”

“I’m efficient, Matthew.”

That wasn’t quite an answer. “And the Chaste?”

“I’m still going after each and every one of them.”

“They must know you’re after them, by now. Would they try and draw you into a trap?”

“They can certainly try.”

“I’m not losing you again.”

“You won’t. Stick, for all his faults, trained me well. And…”

“Yes?” Matt prompted when she didn’t go on.

“Death doesn’t want me.”

She went for flippant, but didn’t quite reach it. Whatever the reason behind her being alive in spite of everything, Matt would never question it. She was here with him, in his apartment, on his couch, wearing his clothes; she smelled like his soap and her hair was loose, falling over his arm. He tugged on it so he could kiss her.

“Let’s just find him first, all right? And then we’ll see.”

He felt her nod against his cheek; neither of them had the best track record on making decisions but he didn’t believe that thinking it through beforehand would change anything, whatever Foggy would say. Oh, Foggy; what would _he_ say if he heard about it? Should Matt call him? _Hi, Fogs, guess who’s back. Again. No, I’m not letting her go this time._ Foggy would lose it. But Matt… he wouldn't lose _her_ again.

Her phone rang as her hands were creeping under his shirt, and he sighed. The food had arrived, and he found that he was looking forward to it after all. Maybe eating would help make everything clearer in his mind but then again he found everything took second place, because Elektra was alive. That was the clearest, sharpest, purest feeling in his heart in that moment.

The familiar ding of a new message on his phone jolted him out of sleep. He lifted his hand to rub at his face when he remembered – “Elektra?” It hadn’t been a dream, had it? Her presence that he could feel – her heartbeat, her smell, the sound of her hair brushing against fabric… he wasn’t hallucinating her, was he?

“Matthew.” The bed dipped; if it was a hallucination, it was a pretty good one. The weight felt real, and he dared reach out in its direction. “I’m here.”

A warm, familiar hand caught his, and he was reminded of what exactly they’d been doing instead of planning that tired him out so much. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “You’re up,” he said.

“I am. I thought I could look for some leads, and you didn’t need to be awake for that.”

“Leads?”

“If you know where to look, much of what people do is online, especially the strange.”

“And did you find anything strange?”

Elektra bent over him and her hair fell on his face, covering him like a blanket he’d happily suffocate under. “I watched you sleep instead,” she replied.

He felt his lips twitch into a smile. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Very much so.” Her hair fell away and she threw something on his stomach. “Your phone.”

“Oh, thanks.”

She crawled over him to settle on the other side of the bed, and he wondered for a moment if he should let her hear the message. Not that he didn’t trust her, it was just…

“I can leave.” Her voice had gone cold.

“What if it’s something bad?” he hurried to say. “What if… what if it’s Stick? Or the Hand?”

“Then I’ll go after them.”

Not _we_ , he noted. “Can’t we stay here? Just forget about everything else and stay here, just you and me? Or – or we could leave it all behind, travel the world; you could take me to Greece like you used to say and we could… we could…”

“Matthew,” she said. “We can’t escape the world, but it can't escape us either. I – _we’ll_ do what needs to be done, and take what we want from it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He wondered if the ruthlessness that Stick had bred into her would always be there, like her fighting skills. But for all he’d done to her, he'd never managed to turn her into a drone, the mindless weapon he’d probably wanted. Just like he’d never managed to turn Matt into a heartless warrior.

He turned the speaker on and they listened to the message.

* * *

Brett wondered what having told Matt he knew would change in their relationship. They’d never been particularly close but they were friendly, which Brett felt was very generous of him given the shit Matt – and Daredevil – had put him and Foggy through. Especially Foggy, poor guy.

Still, he figured being on civil terms with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen couldn't hurt, even if it went against all his beliefs as a cop. So, he left the guy a voicemail about what he’d found in the NYPD database and went about his day like a good little officer.

He didn’t really expect an answer, although a thank you would have been nice. He, however, absolutely did not expect a black-clad figure loitering outside his window (but he should have, really). He drew his gun out and edged a little bit closer.

“Hey, Brett.” And holy shit. Not a crazy cult ninja from – okay, yes, it was a crazy cult ninja. Sort of.

“I almost shot you!”

“Nah, you still had the safety on.”

“How…”

“It didn’t click. Can we come in?”

Brett really, really wanted to say no. “You’ll come in anyway, right?”

Another figure moved into view: a woman with a ponytail. Well, at least it wasn’t Castle; one crazy vigilante was enough. “Your window isn’t even latched, Detective. Child’s play.”

Okay, maybe Castle would have been better. Brett raised his gun again because that voice? That accent? “You,” he said.

“Hello again. She landed lightly on the floor and looked around; her eyes were bright above the mask that covered the lower part of her face. “Hm. I see the NYPD isn’t paying you much.”

“Don’t antagonize him,” Matt said as he followed her in. He pushed his mask up as he came to Brett and put a hand over the gun. “Don’t, please.”

“You said she was dangerous.”

She pulled down the fabric that covered her mouth and smiled just a bit too wide. “I am.”

“I went to see the Rand guy, like you suggested. _He_ said she was bad news, and now you’re bringing her here? To my _home_?”

“Matthew insisted we come talk to you first.”

Gee, thanks. “What about?” He lowered the gun, but just a little.

“You said the data you’d found pointed at a particular area in Alphabet City, but we need more details.”

“You _need_ , uh?”

“We’re going after them, Brett.”

“No, you’re not. There’s only two of you.”

The woman turned away from her inspection of his shelves: video games and comics, mostly. He was pretty sure she was judging him. “What did you find, exactly?”

“Brett, we have to do something about them. Once what’s left of the Chaste finds them… it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“As opposed to what’s going to happen if _you_ find them?”

“Matthew’s not killing anyone.”

“But you are.”

She pursed her lips. They were very red; Brett wondered if she put on makeup before decimating secret ninja armies, or if it was just a trick of the light. “You could come with us and arrest them. Most of them will be undocumented, or maybe will have an APB on them. Whoever’s left are not the higher-ups.”

“How would you know?” She only smiled in answer. Damn, he hadn’t realized Foggy’s tales about Matt’s choices in girlfriends were that accurate. They were always beautiful and always trouble, he’d say. Well, Brett could definitely confirm.

“The head of the Hand…” Matt shook his head. “Fuck, this is stupid. Anyway, they died already. Whoever’s left is trying to rebuild it, even if they don’t have all the tools the original Hand had.”

Brett finally put his gun back in its holster and went to put a pack of beer in the fridge. He had a feeling he was going to need it, once this was all over.

“So that’s where all their phones pinged?” she asked from the backseat.

“Yes.” All the reports had mentioned the vics that had a Hand tattoo on their skull were carrying phones that, once the phone data was analyzed, pointed to this nondescript building. It had been slated for demolition a while ago but it was still standing, maybe because someone had greased a few palms. They hadn’t found any other clue as to their identities and so the investigation had stalled but at least it gave Brett a location, an address where there were more active phones than one would imagine there should be in a supposedly empty building, even one with a few squatters.

“The remaining Chaste know not to go back to any of our – _their_ safehouses. I’ve visited them all already.”

“In New York?” She shook her head at Brett in the rear view mirror. “The country?”

“The _world_ , Detective. Don’t be so small-minded.”

“I really don’t like your girlfriend, man.”

“Aw, and I wanted to invite you to the wedding.”

“Are you getting married, Matthew?”

Uh oh. Brett got out of the car before he found himself in the middle of something he wanted no part of, but they followed suit. No lovers’ spat then; she even looked amused at Matt’s embarrassment.

“Foggy better be your best man,” Brett said.

“Uh, right. Yeah.”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen didn’t look so scary when his girlfriend drew his head down so she could give him a quick kiss before pulling his mask down and hers up. _The more you know_ , Brett thought; even vigilantes and formerly dead ninjas had soft spots. But that wasn’t why they were here.

“Good, let’s do this now.”

Matt made to follow her then turned back to Brett. “You should stay here.”

“Because it’s safer? Fuck that.”

“No.” Brett rolled his eyes; Matt had absolutely meant that. “Just, someone should be here in case, you know, uh.”

“I’m coming in with you.” He looked Matt up and down. “Ropes and wooden batons, nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

Brett studied Elektra next. He couldn't see anything on her, but he was pretty sure somewhere on her person she was carrying something sharp and pointy. She looked like someone who liked sharp and pointy. That leather was close-fitting, but not tight enough that a knife or two couldn't be hidden somewhere.

“I’m not very fond of guns, but I wouldn't mind – ”

“No,” Matt and Brett said at the same time.

“Aw, you’re spoiling my fun.”

“Is she always like that?” Brett asked as he watched her cross the street ahead of them and aim for the building next to the one their targets were hiding in.

Matt smiled. “Better.”

Well, Brett was happy she wasn't _his_ girlfriend, at least. No mysteriously alive scary stabby ninja girlfriend for Brett Mahoney, no sir.

“Let’s do this, then,” Brett said, and they followed her inside and up the stairs. _Fuck_ , he thought. _Of course they’re going for the roofs_. Brett hated roofs; vigilante magnets, the lot of them. And that night, also one off-the-clock cop magnet. “I hope no one finds out; they’d get my badge for this.”

“Lucky you know several attorneys, right?”

“Shut up.”

Matt had the nerve to laugh at him, too.

Once up there on the goddamn roof, the Terrible Two went to stand right on the edge like falling only ever happened to other people. Brett was fully aware he was somebody’s _other people_ and therefore kept a healthy few feet between himself and death by splat.

“Why the roof, anyway? What is it with roofs? We’re supposed to check out the _other_ building; what are we doing up here?”

“Listening,” Matt said. His head tilted at an angle, then another; he looked like a bird. Well, maybe that explained the roofs: Matt Murdock, the Pigeon of Hell’s Kitchen. He sure gave the NYPD shit sometimes, with his fancy disappearing acts when some officer or other tried to catch him. Well, no one really tried any longer; he had more fans than haters in the force and everybody knew they would only catch him if he was dead, which no one wanted to ever happen.

Brett shook his head; they had a job to do. “And?”

“About 15 heartbeats, I’d say.”

“So, 15 people? In regular folks speak, I mean.”

“Probably,” she said. “I doubt any of those left have the training to hide their heartbeats. Some probably aren’t even trained at all.”

“Let’s not underestimate them.”

“I have killed many of the Hand, Matthew. I know them. Those that are left… They’re even all hiding in the same place; how stupid is that?”

“All right.” Matt turned his face – his mask – in Brett’s direction. It was hard to accept who was under it, to reconcile his interactions with Foggy’s friend and those with the vigilante. He’d known for a while, but… still. “Elektra and I will go in and subdue them, but it would be safer for you to call for reinforcements so that you officers can handcuff them all quickly.”

“Or I can kill them.”

“Elektra…”

“They killed me. I owe them death; they _owe me_ their death.” Her voice grew colder. “They tried to turn me into their weapon; they tried to use me. _Death_.”

Matt’s mouth, very visible under his mask, opened and closed, but he didn’t say anything; he just took her hand.

“I will incapacitate them. If it means some die, then they die.”

“But you’re not going to kill them on purpose?”

She sighed. “For you, Matthew.”

“No,” he replied. “For _you_.”

Brett almost wished he’d brought popcorn.

Finally, they found themselves in front of a little back door into the Hand building. Brett had ignored Matt’s insistence on him staying behind and calling for backup so there they were, ready to storm 15 ninjas with a couple of sticks and a blind guy’s sitrep.

Sometimes, Brett regretted not taking Daniele up on her offer. He could have left New York; they would have bought a house, had a few kids, a dog. If only he hadn’t found out she was changing states because she was Mafia, of course. Instead, he was still a cop, still in this city, still getting shot at on the regular. But, yes, not some Corleone’s son-in-law, so there was that. Silver lining, right? You had to find some, when you were getting ready to enter the Twilight Ninja Zone.

Elektra took a bobby pin from her hair, pulled on it to reveal a long, thin needle hidden in it, and jimmied the door lock open. “After you,” she said.

Matt and Elektra were silent as cats and Brett felt like an elephant as they went up the stairs; on each landing they would stop and Matt would do the bird thing again as he listened, then shake his head before they resumed the climb. No one disturbed them until the fourth floor when Matt whispered, “Incoming,” and shit hit the fan.

He’d seen Daredevil in action before, of course; like many others he’d speculated on the change in his style before and after his disappearance – the Midland Circle disaster, as he’d learned since then. But now, he was as acrobatic as he’d ever been; and the girlfriend? If Brett hadn’t been fighting for his life, he’d certainly have taken the time to admire her. She was a whirlwind and she definitely liked blades, even if so far she was only using those she’d taken from the five or so guys who’d jumped on them from the floor above, bouncing on the walls like they only did in movies. And in Matt Murdock’s life, apparently.

One had decided to go after Brett and was shrugging off bullets like they were mild inconveniences, and since Matt was busy rearranging a guy’s face and Elektra was toying with her second attacker, he was on his own. He should have stayed behind and called for reinforcements; he should have listened – but then he’d have had to tell Dispatch he was about to go into a ninja lair with a formerly dead woman and a vigilante the NYPD had, officially, a warrant for. So.

He slammed the butt of his gun on the man’s nose, dodged a knife to the stomach but caught a fist to the jaw, and he’d probably have ended up skewered if one of Matt’s batons hadn’t knocked the blade out of the guy’s hand. He managed to wrestle him to the floor and handcuff him, and when he pulled the mask off his heart fell. It was a kid, just a kid. He looked, what, 15? 17?

“I hope you have more of those,” Elektra said. “If we can’t tie them up, I’m killing them. We can’t risk them coming after us again.”

“But they’re children.”

“Yes, but not very good fighters.”

Brett looked up at hers. “That’s not the point!” Child soldiers, _that_ was the point!

“There's more upstairs,” Matt said.

“Detective? Brett?” Elektra held out her hand. “Cuffs, or I stab them. I’ll be quick, if it matters to you that much.”

“Don’t you dare,” he replied. He’d shoved a fistful of thick zip ties in his jacket before leaving his apartment; he was ready. Making sure the kids wouldn’t be a liability for a good long while was quick work, and at least they were all still alive. Even if a few may not walk quite right again; that knee looked all kinds of wrong.

“Were you one of them, once?”

Her ponytail whipped the air behind her. “I was Chaste,” she said. “Not Hand. And I was much better than them.”

That… wasn’t what Brett wanted to hear, but nothing in this whole clusterfuck was anything he wanted. He wondered how Matt Murdock, a boxer’s son who'd grown up in a Catholic orphanage, had _also_ managed to become a ninja, but he decided he wasn’t up for the full answer right now. Old ninja asshole teacher was bad enough, in his opinion. Even if it raised more questions than it answered.

They climbed the last flights of stairs and Brett didn’t have time to wonder why no one had attacked them again.

When they reached the roof (fucking roofs), it was a standoff. On either side of the door they’d just come through, a dozen guys dressed like those they’d just gotten rid of were facing about ten others. There were way too many katanas for Brett’s liking, and… shit. Striding through the presumably not-Hand group, Old Ninja Asshole Teacher got to the front of his little army. He, of course, also had a katana in hand. In his _one_ hand. Was the guy a leftie? Because it was the only one he had. It didn’t seem to comfort the Hand people, because as soon as he’d appeared they’d shuffled a step or two back.

This, Brett thought, was not what he’d signed for when he’d been sworn in the force.

“Ellie,” the old guy – Stick, Matt had called him – said.

“Fuck you.”

Stick shook his head slowly. “This is the war I taught you both to fight.”

“He looks really old,” a young voice said. “Are you sure he’s really that dangerous?”

“She sounds just like you did at her age, Ellie.”

Brett tried to find where the voice had come from; it was a small figure who couldn't be over 12. Was that what this war was about? _Children?_ The others looked like adults, although he could spot a few with suspiciously gangly limbs, but… fuck.

“Your war.'' Matt raised his batons, but Brett couldn't tell whether he was about to go for the Hand or for Stick. “It’s about training children to be killing machines; it always has been.”

Stick sneered, and someone threw a ninja star thing, and then it was a mêlée. Brett put his gun back into its holster before picking up a piece of scaffolding and hitting legs, arms, anything that looked non-vital; he didn’t want to shoot fucking kids or Matt or – something hit the back of his head and he staggered.

“Brett? Fuck.” And he thought he was about to kiss the rough concrete floor but he didn’t and he felt his limbs drag against it instead. “Stay here; don’t move.”

He blinked. Moving? Not happening. Everything looked sideways and tasted like blood, which was… oh. Oh, yeah. Made sense. Ninjas, and also ow. He was never telling his ma about this.

There were fewer and fewer people standing, and more and more blood in his mouth. After a while, there were only three figures standing.

“You killed them,” said the most familiar voice. “Why? They could have been saved!”

“You’ve always been too soft, Matty. It’s a shame you’ve softened my Ellie, too.”

There was a clang and Brett squinted. Oh, swords. Yeah, cool, but only in a movie. Shit, why didn’t he stay home with Netflix and a beer?

“Don’t call me that.” Ah, right. Matt’s girlfriend, yes. “Your war’s over, old man. _You_ are over.”

“You’re still alive,” Stick said. “So am I.”

“No, no more deaths.” Matt sounded so tired; Brett could relate. “We’ll just call a tip in and get Brett to a hospital. And you…”

“You know someone has to die, Matty. It’s either her or me. I’m Chaste. The war isn’t over until…”

“It _is_ over! We’re surrounded by bodies, and the ones you haven’t killed are going to die if they don’t get help real soon! Death, death, death – is that all the Chaste had to offer? Weren’t you supposed to be the good guys? Is that what it was all about, then? Training children to kill or die?”

“We fight against evil. We fight so people can go on living.”

“Living?” Oh. Brett had never heard Matt’s voice break like that. “That’s what you call living?”

What was that noise? Brett moved his head gingerly, and one foot away from his head, caught on the ledge around the roof… a grappling hook.

“Matt,” he rasped.

It started again – the clangs and the shouts and the joints shattering, it all made Brett retch. If he’d had that beer earlier, at least he’d have had something to vomit; as it was he tried to stand up and join the fight again, but he only managed to sit up and lean against the ledge, gun in hand. If anyone got close enough he was sure not to miss, he’d shoot. Probably. They’d have to be _really_ close, though. But no one seemed to care about him, so he crawled to a slight figure next to him. Shit, it was the little girl from earlier; she was bleeding from her thigh.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said. She was still loosely holding a knife, and she tried to stab him with it; but it was easy to take it from her hand. “Don’t. What’s your name?”

“I am Hand,” she mumbled. “I’ll kill the old man.”

Right. Brainwashed child soldiers, because of course. He hadn’t thought he’d ever use those first aid classes on child soldiers. Life, uh? Curveballs. He removed his jacket and took his shirt off to tie it around her leg as tight as he could; it would have to do.

“I want to be just like her,” the girl said. “I'll be as good, I’ll be better than her. And then I’ll kill her.”

Brett wanted to cry. “Yeah, but you gotta hold on first, okay?” He took his hand in hers; she held on. She held on. He tried to take comfort in that; it was still something, right? They could turn out – they’d get help, and they’d turn out okay. That handful of kids still caught up in that war could, _would_ have a good life. He had to believe it. The girl pressed her lips together and kept glaring at him even as her hand kept squeezing his, and he thought it meant something.

“Matty!”

Brett wiped his face with his free, bloody hand and saw the old guy stumble back into Matt’s arms, a knife sticking out of his chest. His one hand opened as he fell and the man he’d killed with his katana crumbled in a heap, forgotten. Elektra knocked the last ninja standing with an impressive kick to the head that made Brett’s own throb in sympathy and she hurried to help Matt lay the old guy flat on the dirty roof.

Matt was frantic, his hand feeling for the old man’s wound and pushing around the blade. Given where it was, it wouldn't do much to stem the blood. Old Asshole was probably dying. “Why? Why did you do that?”

“He saved you,” Elektra said. Her mask had fallen a while ago, and Brett could see her downturned mouth. “That knife was meant for you.”

“I _know_ ; I’d sensed it. I… You didn’t have to step in front of me!”

Brett checked the girl was still fully conscious and she understood; she opened her hand. He managed to get closer; maybe he could… no, there was nothing he could do. There wasn’t any doubt, now he could see better. Stick had minutes to live, at best, but Brett still joined Matt to put pressure on the wound too. It was the least he could do, even if it was more for Matt’s sake than his asshole teacher’s.

“I die, she lives,” Old Guy whispered.

Matt tore off his mask and wiped his face; he was crying. “I could have gotten him,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

“Too soft, Matty. Shouldn't kill. Would…” Stick wheezed. “Would kill you. Now, you live.”

“Stop speaking,” Elektra said. “You taught us to slow our blood flow; now it’s your turn to do it. Buy yourself some time.”

“’m old.” Brett had to strain to hear him now; their old teacher was mouthing the words more than speaking them. “You live. Make me proud.” Stick’s hand relaxed around Matt's wrist.

There was a cut-off noise; Brett looked up from the old guy’s face to see Matt biting his lip.

“He’s… he’s…”

“He is.” Elektra stood up and looked at the carnage around them. “ _They’re_ not, not all of them.”

We can’t leave him here. What if…”

“We can’t do anything for him, now. Chaste and Hand are gone. He’s _dead_.”

“But the others…”

“We can’t stay, Matthew.”

“Go,” Brett said. “I’ll call it in, say I was following a lead and ended up here. I’ll tell them you saved me, which you did, and that you left before officers and medics get here, which you will. Don't get caught, all right? And I’ll make sure no zombie cult gets their hands on him.”

“Brett…”

“Go!”

He watched Matt lay his hand over his old teacher’s heart for a quick moment before his girlfriend dragged him up and away. She nodded at Brett and they left, not bothering to go down the stairs but jumping over the ledge onto the fire escape.

Brett pulled his miraculously intact phone out – well, not so miraculous; he’d bought the extra sturdy kind with an extra sturdy case after losing yet another cell to the life of a NY cop – and called Dispatch.

* * *

Elektra told the truth when she said she'd watched Matthew sleeping. She had. She did most nights, in fact. Even if she fell asleep before he did, lulled by his heartbeat or the way he'd trail his fingers along her back, she would always wake up to watch him sleep.

It didn't feel real. He was there, alive, with her.

She was... happy? It came upon her now and then, that feeling in her throat that was almost like laughter, the way her breath would catch when he smiled so widely his eyes nearly disappeared.

It had been so long since she'd last been happy. She tried to remember when. Maybe it had been during her last time in New York, but those moments had been fleeting, easily chased away by a battle or a problem or ninjas.

Mostly ninjas, now that she came to think of it, though that wasn't exactly unexpected in her life.

But this lasting happiness, it caught her off-guard. She'd be walking with Matthew and it would take her breath away. Of course, it also made her wonder what would happen to take away her happiness. It couldn't last, not really. It never did. Something would disturb the fragile peace that she and Matthew had built.

Maybe it would be ninjas.

She always kept an eye out just to be safe. After all, Matthew seemed so carefree most of the time, walking along like he didn't expect the world to attack him. She had to keep him safe.

He'd had the same training as she had, she knew, but his had been interrupted, cut short. Maybe if Stick had continued with Matthew, he would be more like her.

She didn't want that, though. She loved Matthew as he was, loved that optimism that he still managed to carry, his belief that maybe the world wouldn't destroy him.

Elektra's world had been destroyed on more than one occasion; so had Matthew's, really, but he still managed to be positive.

She almost asked him how he did it, but she was afraid of his answer, afraid of what asking it would reveal of her.

So wary even now, even with Matthew; she hated that about herself.

The thing that woke her up most nights, the one little wrinkle in the fabric of her happiness, was Stick.

He was dead.

Elektra was fairly certain it would stick this time, so to speak; Matthew's detective friend had called and left a message that Stick was in the morgue, that an autopsy had begun with no incident this time.

"We should have him cremated," Elektra had said when Matthew had set aside his phone.

Matthew hadn't argued. Maybe he knew how important it was for Elektra to know Stick was gone.

Yes, Stick was dead, and Elektra hadn't killed him.

She had thought she would be happy or at least relieved; most of the time, she was. But her second night at Matthew's, she had woken with tears on her cheeks. She had watched Matthew sleeping, and maybe he had sensed her upset; still mostly asleep, himself, he'd pulled her close and she'd drifted off to the sound of his breathing.

She was happy, but she couldn't shake the feeling it wouldn't last.

On their third day together, Elektra took a brief trip to her penthouse. Matthew's clothing was comfortable but really not the fashion statement she wanted to make, at least not all the time. Matthew offered to come along, but Elektra wanted to go alone; she'd said it wasn't worth him making the trip just to be there while she gathered her belongings, but really she'd wanted that time to catch her breath, to center herself in this new reality.

Elektra stood in the penthouse, a place that was hers alone, and thought about Matthew being there. She couldn't picture it now, not after having seen him so recently in his own space.

She found that she preferred his place, another thing that surprised her. It was Matthew's life, Matthew's world, and now she was a part of it. She found herself missing Matthew, and then panic gripped her: maybe he was gone. It was unreasonable, she knew, but she still took up her bag and returned to Hell's Kitchen. She would, she decided, clear out the penthouse and sell it. Perhaps she and Matthew would get another place, one they chose together, but his place felt right for the moment.

In a move that Elektra assumed shocked everyone, Matthew announced that he was taking a few days off work. Elektra wasn't sure if he'd told anyone she was there but didn't really mind either way. They would find out soon enough, and she was glad to have Matthew all to herself. Barring her trip to the penthouse, they stayed together nearly all the time. Elektra found that she grew uneasy when he wasn't there, though she told herself she was being ridiculous.

Matthew noticed, though. "I'm not going anywhere," he said when he got back from Mass; Elektra had opted not to go and had been unsettled the entire time he was gone. He sat down next to her on the couch and Elektra drew him close, pulling off his glasses and setting them on the table. She liked being able to see his face.

"I know," she replied, though it felt like there was something unspoken between them. Matthew kissed her but didn't say anything, and Elektra wished... she didn't know, maybe that she'd gone with him to Mass. Maybe she'd feel less awkward.

It occurred to her to say, "I'm not going anywhere either." Stick hadn't been great with communication skills, either teaching them or modeling them, but Elektra occasionally made the effort.

Matthew turned toward her, his eyes gone wide. "Really?"

"Well, not permanently," she amended. "There is some business I need to settle in person. Not murder," she added when he tensed a little. "Sometimes _business_ truly does mean business. So I may have to leave, but I'll come back."

He still didn't say anything, and Elektra reached up to loosen his tie. She brushed her fingertips along his chin and then down his throat; he'd shaved recently but still always seemed to have that same amount of stubble. When she replaced her fingers with her lips, he made a pleased sound. "Matthew," she said against his neck. She was reasonably certain she had his full attention. "Now that I have you back, what makes you think I'm ever letting you go?"

Her hand dropped lower – yes, she definitely had his attention. She nipped at his neck and smiled when he groaned in response.

They did not make it to the bed.

Not a bad way to spend a Sunday.

"You could come with me."

It came out of nowhere, that suggestion. Matthew was occupied by some work; he wasn't going to the office, but nothing could keep him from the law. He turned his head towards her. "What?"

"To Greece. Or... wherever. It doesn't have to be Greece."

She wanted it to be Greece. There were places there she wanted to show Matthew, places that had somehow become hers.

"Just a short trip, or as short as is realistic considering how awful the flight is."

"You're not exactly selling it," Matthew said, pulling out his earpiece and setting aside his laptop. Still, he hadn't said no. "I've never been out of the – country."

Had he left the state? The city?

"We'd have to get you a passport, then. It could be expedited. I know people." More importantly, she knew things _about_ people.

"I'm sure you do." Matthew smiled, his expression thoughtful.

Elektra decided not to push, but perhaps to bring it up again later. She wanted Matthew to come with her, yes – had even been putting off the trip at the prospect of being without him for so long, weak as that felt – but wanted it to be his choice. Instead, she asked, "Back to work tomorrow?"

"Yes. We have to go to court."

Elektra considered saying, _I'll be fine_ , but rejected that as obvious. _You don't have to apologize..._ Well, he hadn't, even though he'd sounded apologetic. She went with, "Shall I come meet you for lunch?"

He brightened. "That sounds good. Court is early, so we should be done in plenty of time."

"I'll come by around noon?"

Matthew nodded, and Elektra smiled.

It wasn't that she _couldn't_ go so long without seeing him. She just didn't want to, that was all.

* * *

Foggy got in early to work, earlier than he ever had. He didn't think he'd ever even seen the building that early. But Matt was coming back to work and he wanted to be _ready_.

Brett had pulled him aside the previous week. "You know she's back?"

"What? Who's back?"

Brett had sighed and said a word that, in years gone by, Foggy would have told Brett's ma about. "You didn't hear this from me."

Foggy had focused. That phrase coming from Brett usually meant epic dirt. "My lips are sealed."

"Elektra."

What? _Shit._ "No, Brett, she's dead. Uh, twice, actually."

"Well, I guess it didn't take, because she's back."

Foggy had remembered the news, the story about the rooftop fight that had sounded like some sort of gang turf brawl. "Shit."

"Yeah."

"Does Matty know?"

"You could say that."

Then it had been Foggy's turn to break out the extra-foul language. Brett hadn't threatened to tell Foggy's ma.

Brett had just nodded and left, and then later Matt had called to say he was taking a couple days off, and Foggy tried not to be scared.

He was still scared, though, even days later. Elektra Natchios had never brought out Matt's best decision-making abilities. Considering Matt's usual life choices, that was saying something.

So Foggy came in early so he could make sure the office was just right. He had coffee brewing in the coffeemaker he'd bought and he checked that Matt's papers were in the right spot.

Karen had gone to visit a friend in Vermont right before everything had happened, and Foggy was mostly glad. He figured he'd be more likely to reason with Matt one-on-one, and he had to reason with Matt. Elektra no doubt had some wild plan; Foggy hoped it was only something illegal like stealing cars and not, say, moving out of the country.

That was what scared Foggy the most: the thought of Elektra taking Matt away. So he got to work early, and he _prepared_.

He wasn't going to lose Matt. Not again.

Matt was all smiles when he came in, relaxed in a way that Foggy guessed meant he'd gotten some during his time off. No surprise there.

"Fogs," he greeted, more cheerful than Foggy had seen him in ages.

It made Foggy's stomach clench. Elektra made Matt happy, and happy was _good_ , but not too happy.

"Hey, coffee!" Matt continued. "But it's not from down the block."

Yeah, those super senses. Elektra probably understood those, too, in a way Foggy never would. Fucking ninja training. "Uh, yeah," Foggy said, trying to keep his voice light. "I got a coffeemaker. Want some?"

"Wow, we're in the big time now. Yeah, please."

Foggy got Matt some coffee and offered over the mug; Matt took a sip. "That's really good. Thanks."

"So, how was your time off? Do anything fun?"

Matt's smile was especially pleased. "Nah, mostly stayed in."

Foggy just bet he had.

"So, court," Matt added, his tone brisk. He took another drink of coffee, with approving noises that Foggy felt were maybe a little overdone, then said, "We're good to go, right? You're going to start us off, and I'll close?"

"Sounds great. Ms. Wu is going to meet us there. Want to go over anything before we head over?"

"I'm all good, buddy. Let's get going."

They did, and court went well. Matt was _on_ , and the judge was receptive, and they got the best possible outcome for Ms. Wu, which was great.

"We should get lunch," Foggy said as they walked back to the office. "A celebration. Great case, you having fun on your time off. Lots to celebrate."

Matt's smile dimmed just a little. "I need to tell you something," he said, and Foggy braced himself. "Elektra is back. Probably should have started with that this morning, but I wanted to get court wrapped up." He paused, then added, "Uh, she's not dead."

Foggy wasn't so sure that he wouldn't have preferred Zombie Elektra if he was being honest with himself. Zombie Elektra would be less likely to lure Matt away.

But Matty was standing there looking happier than Foggy had seen him in ages, obviously waiting for a response. He tried to keep his tone bright. "What, seriously? That's great, Matty."

"You knew." He didn't look any less pleased. "Oh, did Brett tell you? I should have guessed."

"Yeah. He didn't want me to say he told. Should have figured you'd guess."

"He's a great guy."

"For a cop," Foggy quipped, and Matt laughed.

"For a cop. But Elektra's coming by for lunch, so I thought I should let you know. You're welcome to come along if you want."

No, Foggy did not want. He definitely did not want. Going to lunch was probably a safe activity; Matt would be fine, right? But would going be better, a way to keep an eye on Elektra?

Foggy mumbled something vague as they approached the office, hoping to buy himself some time to make something resembling a decision, but it was too late. Elektra waited outside the building.

She absolutely _lit up_ when she saw Matt and looked like it was all she could do not to come running to him. Shit, Foggy could practically hear the violins.

And Matt couldn't see her face, but he must have felt something; he was lighting up right back.

Son of a bitch.

Matt quickened his pace and got to Elektra just before Foggy. She took a few steps to meet him, and it was like Foggy wasn't even there.

They didn't start making out on the sidewalk or anything, but Matt took her hand and kissed it, and she leaned in to kiss his cheek, and it was like they were oblivious to the rest of the world. Honestly, them making out on the sidewalk would have been less intimate than the expressions on their faces.

Foggy cleared his throat. Elektra blinked and turned toward him. "Hey," Foggy said, probably too-brightly, but he didn't care. "I hear we're having lunch."

Because, yeah, he was going. He didn't know what Elektra would try to convince Matty to do, but Foggy was going to go along to keep him safe.

It wasn't the most awkward meal Foggy had ever attended. No, that honor went to Thanksgiving the year his mom had caught his sister and her boyfriend making out in the pantry right before the meal. It was definitely in the top three, though.

Conversation came in fits and starts, and Foggy definitely wasn't looking under the table to see if they were holding hands. At least, he assumed it was Matt's hand that Elektra had. It was a relief when the food came and all the hands ended up on top of the table.

And when Brett stopped by their table – city this big, but Foggy still ran into people – Foggy beamed at him and encouraged him to sit down and join them.

Brett did. "I was going to call, but then I saw you here and figured I might as well tell you in person. The kids made it and most of them are in foster homes. Two to a home, where they could manage it, so they'd have someone with them with, uh, a similar experience."

Foggy didn't know what he was talking about, but Matt and Elektra both nodded like what Brett said made perfect sense. Elektra might have noticed his confusion, because she said, "The Hand recruited some children."

"To fight?" Foggy asked, horrified.

Elektra shrugged. "Matthew was nine when Stick started training him. I was about the same."

Nine. Damn. Foggy hadn't really put together the details. And Stick had stopped training Matty, but Elektra... damn.

It explained a lot. Not that Foggy was going to let Elektra get away with whatever she had planned for Matt, but he at least understood some of how she acted.

"You said _most_ ," Matt pressed, and Brett nodded.

"There's a little girl still in the hospital. They wanted to keep an eye on her for a few days. Your buddy Danny Rand is footing her bill – well, mainly because she's in his hospital."

"That's good of him," Elektra said.

Brett hesitated, then said, "The girl in the hospital? That's the one who said she was going to kill you. She seemed to like you though."

"The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive," Elektra replied, though she looked troubled. Maybe because a little kid wanted to kill her? Who could say, with Elektra?

"Hey, they're taking good care of her," Brett said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But they're keeping a close watch, too – on her, and on the rest of the kids, too. And if any of them have trouble, someone will let me know."

"Adjustment will be a challenge," Elektra said, her voice gone brisk. "Being in a family situation after... well. It can be difficult."

Matt put his hand on top of hers, and she smiled. Foggy poked at his food. Brett scooted his chair back, looking like he was ready to go.

"So I'll see you around," he said as he got to his feet, and those remaining at the table made their farewells.

The food was just about gone and Foggy honestly could not wait for the meal to be over. Elektra and Matt had kept the conversation pretty neutral, so Foggy didn't really know what they were planning.

When the check came, Elektra made noises about paying – she had more money than God, if her clothes were any indication – but Matt waved her away and took care of it.

"Well, back to work, I guess," Foggy said, making a mental note to give Matt some cash for his share of the food. He considered the way Elektra was looking at Matt, the way Matty was leaning against her, and said, "I'll meet you back there, Matt."

Hopefully, they wouldn't get in too much trouble saying goodbye to each other, though Foggy had his doubts.

Mercifully, Matt ended up at the office only a few minutes after Foggy, though he looked a lot more rumpled than when Foggy had last seen him.

"Uh, you're tie's a little..."

Matt straightened his tie with a smile that was part sheepish, part smug, and 100% Murdock.

"She seems... nice," Foggy added.

Matt sighed. Maybe even he would admit that _nice_ wasn't a great word to describe Elektra Natchios.

Foggy amended, "You two look really happy."

That brought back Matt's smile, and Foggy felt like less of a jerk.

"She's been talking about going to Greece," Matt said, and Foggy eyed Matt. He didn't seem upset at the idea.

"Greece, huh? I've heard it's beautiful." He paused. Not that Matt could see it. “The warm weather would be great.” Well, if Greece was warm this time of year. Foggy sure didn't know. 

Matt nodded. "Yeah. She said I should come along."

Foggy's heart sank. There it was. Elektra would take Matt off to Greece and he'd never come back. "Oh." He cleared his throat and forced his voice back down to its normal pitch. "Oh. Wow. That would be... a trip."

"Right? I'm thinking about it. I've never been... anywhere, really, but that would be a good way to see somewhere: with someone who lived there."

Foggy nodded, trying to breathe through his suddenly tight throat. Matt continued talking about passports and flights and Foggy wasn't really hearing any of it.

"Hey," Matt said finally. "You okay? Your breathing's a little..."

"I'm fine," Foggy replied, and Matt shook his head. "How long are you thinking, for the trip?"

"Not too long. I wouldn't want to leave you in the lurch."

Figgy took a deep breath and asked it. "So you'd definitely come back?"

"What? Of course, Fogs. Greece sounds great, but Hell's Kitchen is my home. If I go – and it's a big _if_ – I'm absolutely coming back." He gestured in a way that Foggy realized was meant to indicate the new coffeemaker, adding, "Greece won't have coffee like this."

Greece's coffee was probably way better, but Foggy took the statement for the reassurance that Matt no doubt intended it to be. "As long as you come back," he said, his voice quiet.

"I will."

Matt hadn't always been entirely truthful with Foggy, but this time Foggy believed him.

* * *

Elektra stood outside the building.

She shouldn't go in. There was nothing she could do for the child, and seeing Elektra might be upsetting for her.

It wasn't a good idea.

Elektra headed for the doors anyway.

She didn't ask for the child; she didn't know her name, and if she didn't ask, they couldn't tell her not to visit.

Getting to the pediatrics ward was the first step. Entering it required being buzzed in, but that wouldn't stop Elektra. She just bought coffee and hot tea and a few muffins, enough to keep her hands occupied so she could follow the next man to enter, look helpless and grateful, and let him hold the door for her.

Easy.

Then she walked the halls and listened. She shouldn't have too much trouble finding the child, though she'd only had a fleeting glimpse of her during the battle. And, in fact, it didn't take long. They'd placed her at the end of the hall; her room was unattended, possibly because she was asleep.

Elektra stood in the doorway and watched her. She lay curled on her side, one small fist tucked next to her cheek. Her dark hair fell across her face so Elektra couldn't see it well, but her chest rose and fell with slow regularity. Still watching, Elektra stepped into the room.

There it was. The child's breathing checked for just a moment, then continued. She was awake, but she gave no sign other than the slight hesitation in her breathing.

Elektra said, "Very good," just to see what she'd do.

The child sat up, shaking her hair out of her face; her eyes had gone wide, maybe at her realization of just who was visiting her. She was pretty enough, but Elektra was more interested in her alert expression and the way her hands fisted.

"Are you here to kill me?" Her tone was challenging, which Elektra liked.

Elektra didn't pretend to be surprised by the question. "No. Tea?" She stepped closer and held out the drink, but the child didn't take it. Elektra sighed and took a sip, then extended the drink again. This time, it was accepted.

Elektra sat in the chair next to the bed and drank her coffee, watching. The child in the bed mirrored her movements, perhaps unconsciously. Her eyes flicked across the room, perhaps looking for weapons or an escape route.

"What is your name?" She shook her head, and Elektra asked, "Don't want to tell me?" That didn't seem to be it, so Elektra asked, "Maybe you don't like your name?" That was closer. "Maybe it doesn't fit you any more?"

The child regarded her steadily. "The man said I'm going to live in a family. Jericho will be there, too."

"The man?"

The child lifted her hand to twirl her hair into curls. "He seems really... happy, but I guess he's kind of okay. And he said the hospital will take good care of me."

Ah. Danny Rand had come to talk to the child. Elektra nodded. "I was told that was what would happen, yes. Jericho is someone you know from before?"

The child nodded. "He came to see me. Him and the people we'll be staying with. They seem nice." From her tone, she wasn't sure if this was a good thing.

"I'm sure they are." Elektra remembered her own transition to a family. She'd been about this girl's age. "It won't be easy," she said. "But it's worth doing." The child looked puzzled, so she added, "Learning how to be in a family. What you had before was –"

"Not a family." The child seemed certain of that.

"No. But to get by in this world, you'll have to relate to people in ways that you may not know how to do just now."

The girl didn't look convinced. "And being in a family will help?"

Elektra remembered the half-wild child she'd been when Stick had taken her to Greece. "It did for me."

The girl still looked uncertain but didn't comment.

Elektra continued, "You have a unique opportunity." Oh, the skepticism in the child's expression! "Your name," Elektra clarified. "You're starting a new life. Why not choose a new name?"

"Did you?"

"With a name like Elektra? Of course not." Elektra leaned back in her chair and noted the way the child's attention snapped to her at the movement. "When I was young, I knew someone who chose her own name."

"What name did she pick?"

"Jiyuu." Elektra smiled. Jiyuu had been young enough to be friendly, as much as people were friendly in those days, but old enough for Elektra to look up to her.

The girl's nose wrinkled. "That's a weird name."

"Jiyuu was Japanese, and she chose a name in her language. It means _freedom_." That sparked the girl's attention, likely for the same reason Jiyuu had chosen the name, though Jiyuu's situation had, of course, been quite different; she had given Elektra a much more detailed explanation of the name, and how it depended on the characters used to write it, but _freedom_ would be better for the child.

"Should I pick that for my new name?"

Elektra shrugged. "I'm hardly going to tell you what you should choose for a name. It's a personal decision." She rummaged in her bag, giving the impression that she didn't notice the girl's alertness, then got up to drop her business card on the table. It did not, of course, advertise her various services, but just gave her name and a phone number that would reach her. "Just in case."

The girl did not reach for the card.

Elektra turned to leave, though she paused when the girl said matter-of-factly, "I'm going to kill you when I'm older."

Elektra smiled. If the girl saw it as a baring of teeth, she wouldn't be wrong. "You can certainly try."

And Elektra walked down the hall and out of the hospital, her heels announcing her as she went.

That evening as she and Matthew lingered over their wine, Elektra said, "I visited that child today."

Matthew lifted his head. "Child?"

"The one Detective Mahoney mentioned, from the fracas the other evening."

Matthew's lips quirked, perhaps at her description of the altercation, but then he asked, "The one in the hospital?" Elektra hummed an affirmative, and Matthew asked tentatively, "Is she, uh..."

Elektra sighed. "Matthew, I do not kill children," she said briskly. "I went to see her, she threatened my life, I left."

Matthew seemed like he was trying to hide his relief. "She'll be going into foster care when she gets out, right?" He shook his head. "I don't envy those people."

"Why? Because a child who lived that sort of lifestyle will necessarily be difficult?"

Matthew's expression suggested that he thought that was an obvious point, but at least he was smart enough not to say so. "It's a... challenging upbringing to overcome, but you did it, so it can be done." He smiled at her, and she couldn't help but smile in return. "But kids shouldn't live that kind of life."

"They should not," Elektra agreed. "Part of the reason for my mission to rid us of the Chaste and the Hand was to ensure that."

"Excellent motivation," Matthew said, which Elektra figured was as close as he would get to approving of her killings. "Did you get them all, do you think?"

Elektra considered her answer. "There may be a pocket or two that I didn't find, but I have my sources keeping an eye out for them. But the leadership is gone. That's the important part."

"No need to kill people simply because they were manipulated into believing in what they thought was a just cause."

Well, no. Not when he put it that way. "But, Matthew, if I ever hear of a similar group forming... I cannot let that stand."

He took her hand. "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he said.

"We?"

Matthew smiled that cocky smile that always warmed her heart. "Well, of course. We're a team now, right?" More like him wanting to keep her fatality count low, but she could take that if it meant he'd be near. "I've been thinking about Greece," he added. "When would you need to go?"

Elektra kept her tone even, trying not to sound too hopeful, but his smile widened. Her heartbeat must have given her away. "Any time, really. There's no deadline."

"So there'd be time to get my passport?"

"Easily."

"Good," he said. He looked a little nervous, but determined. "We'll have to plan it so it's a good time for Foggy. I don't want to leave him in a bad spot, work-wise."

Elektra nodded and said, "Of course." She would agree to just about anything to have Matthew come along on the trip. She started imagining what they would do, losing herself for a moment in the picture of being in Greece with Matthew.

Though, really, the thought of him in Greece was odd – but wonderful. She'd never really imagined him anywhere but his city and the prospect of having him with her in Greece was delightful. She knew the trip would be temporary, and that Matthew would inevitably come back to Hell's Kitchen. She would leave again, of course; it was her nature. But now she knew she could always return to his side, to the one person she knew would never betray her.

**Author's Note:**

> A few spoilery warnings, to explain why we picked _Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings _:  
>  Stick is canonically dead at the end of _Defenders_. He is brought back to life but dies again. Does it count as Character Death? Can't decide ;-)  
> Topics of memory, loss, violence, child endangerment and abuse (as per canon, ie using children for war), death, some alcohol, religion.  
> Also, ninjas!  
> But it's fluffy too, promise ^_^__


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